


The Dead Can't Testify

by butyoumight, jetblackmirror (orphan_account)



Category: My Chemical Romance, Taking Back Sunday
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Gore, Non-Linear Narrative, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-10-31
Updated: 2009-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butyoumight/pseuds/butyoumight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jetblackmirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Zombie Apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's it Feel Like to Be a Ghost?

**Author's Note:**

> Starts when My Chem was in the studio for the scrapped album before _Danger Days_ (before Taking Back Sunday kicked the Matts out), and veers off into AU-land from there.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So long as they hadn't been followed, they could be safe. For a little while, at least._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all [butyoumight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/butyoumight/pseuds/butyoumight).

  
  
"If you would only listen,  
bypassed everything and went  
straight for the neck.  
I study (we study) up nightly.  
Dragged you out into the streets,  
before you buckled at your knees."  
\- What's It Feel Like To Be A Ghost?,  
Taking Back Sunday

 

It was the way their shadows started slanting sharply, stretching out behind them while the sun balanced on the horizon in front, threatening to slip out of sight. That was what inspired them to find a place to stop. It was no use running at night. No one had quite figured out why the state of being a mindless flesh-eating (for lack of a better term) zombie went hand in hand with enhanced night-vision (indeed, no one had figured out if that was actually the case), but it was a fact that the infected had bumped the uninfected down the food chain a step or two, and those with any sense of survival instinct had to accept and anticipate that.

The roads were a mess. It turns out when you literally have no where to run and no where to hide (not effectively, anyway), most people's first instinct is to start running anyway. Fight or flight is a hard instinct to resist, and when the body ambling towards you with it's mouth gaping for your blood is a loved one (or a friend, or a casual acquaintance) flight usually wins out. So you run, sometimes armed with nothing more than the vehicle you're still making payments on. And when that car runs out of gas, usually as Murphy's Law would dictate in the dead of night, there's no stopping for more gas. And that's when you leave your car where it died, and you run on foot. You're going nowhere, but at least you're going.

Multiply that by a couple thousand, and that's what you get around the greater New York area during the presumable apocalypse. Hundreds, thousands of cars and taxis and busses, all dead in the streets and abandoned.

It's a shame, Adam thinks, that so many zombie movies take place in populated areas and yet the protagonists neglect and ignore the usefulness of big department stores, like Walmart. Walmart, he thinks, is just about the perfect place to hole up during the apocalypse. Especially those Supercenters. They're everywhere, and there's food there, and weapons, and places to hide. The big signs that still have the star in the middle of the name, they look like heavenly gates to him. Especially now.

So long as they hadn't been followed, they could be safe. For a little while, at least.

The place is kinda creepy when it's empty, though. Empty but for the five of them, at least. They, of course, are in a tight knot, moving like a pack of wolves in unfamiliar territory. Moving around a wounded pack mate, trying to keep him safe. Matt's mad, of course he is, being the little confident shit that he is.

They make their way through the store like that, all on edge and nervous. They'd been running a long time, running for hours and hours now, and they'd run themselves ragged. They all kind of half hoped for some sleep tonight. Adam's a little scared that they might not even get that, though he hasn't said so out loud. Well, they might get some sleep, but Adam can't imagine any of them getting any actual rest. He glances at Matt, at all that blood, a bright splash against pale skin, and he's sure he won't be getting any rest at all.

Adam wasn't paying attention when the power shift happened, but sometime between the altercation at the studio and their discovery of the Walmart, Adam had stopped being the de facto leader, if he ever was. He was too worried, too distracted, and really, he never should have been any kind of leader to begin with, not even before the apocalypse. If you'd asked Adam a month ago who would take charge in an end-of-the-world scenario, he probably would have guessed Eddie. But it wasn't Eddie who stepped up, it was Mark who had become something of the pack leader.

Adam likes this little analogy, this metaphor he's got in his mind, of them as a pack of wolves. It's a lot better than the other option: a herd of grazing cows, waiting to be picked off. He can still pretend like he's a part of the race that's reigning on the top of the food chain when he likens himself and his band mates to wolves. He just has to forget that there are some terrible people out there that hunt wolves.

So Mark leads the way through the store, down the wide main aisle. Adam finds himself noticing the irony in the displays on either side of the aisle. Trapper keepers and calculators and tupperware and computer peripherals. As if, after the apocalypse ends and the zombies are taken care of, we'll all just go to Walmart, and stock up, and head back to college.

As they pass by the electronics section, duck into a little anteroom designated by grand signs as "Site to Store" (didn't it used to be called Layaway?), Adam notices a display of nine dollar DVDs, and the Evil Dead trilogy jumps out at him as another little pin-prick of irony. If they had something so convenient as a Necronomicon, maybe they _could_ all go back to school, and soon too. He imagines even if they did have that, they wouldn't sell it at Walmart. They didn't even sell Green Day's new album.

Adam wonders if Mark, in his free-wheeling younger days, ever shoplifted from a Walmart and snuck out through the back room. He seems to know where he's going, leading the band past walls of tiny little lockers, some of which, many of which had little blue and white and red name badges clipped to them. Adam wonders who all those people are, whether they're dead or not. Mark ducked through an unmarked door, and generator-powered lights flicked on automatically. A break room, with tables and chairs and soda cans and coffee mugs. Despite the excessive smell of burnt coffee radiating from the corner, it was a nice little room. Adam catches sight of a door off to the side with a peeling label on it reading Designated Smoking Area.

"Man, why didn't I ever work at Walmart? You had to smoke outside at all my old jobs."

The words are out of his mouth before he even realizes he's speaking, and when everyone jumps a bit, startled, and turns to stare at him, that's when Adam realizes that none of them had said more than an individual word of warning since, well. Since Matt got bitten.

The tension of the group breaks as easy as a soap bubble on a dry fingertip, and Matt slinks out from the center of the invisible pen Adam's body had been making up a corner of, together with Fazzi, Mark and Eddie. Matt makes his way to a chair that's facing out from a nearby table and perches on the edge of it, though he doesn't relax, not at all. His back is still straight, tense. There's a sense of focus in his eyes despite the haze of exhaustion, though Adam imagines they must all look that way. Matt's hand trembles slightly, his fingers twitching while he reaches to touch the wound, fingers probing through the gore high up on the slope of his shoulder, nearly his neck. It's near a big artery, Adam thinks, and that would at least explain why there was so much blood.

"Shit, man." Adam says, looking at him. His momentary amusement at the break room having its own smoking section is gone completely, the look on Matt's face, the paleness of his skin, it's a total buzz kill. Not that there was any buzz to kill, unless you counted the buzz of adrenalin and survival. It could be a pretty heady high. "Man," Adam's voice cracks a little, and he glances at the others, wondering if they felt as shattered inside as he did. Matt had a hand pressed over the wound, and it was still bleeding enough to seep between his fingers and trickle down the back of his hand. Adam was scared, just so scared for a minute. He tried to shake it off. "How'd you let him get so close?"

It had been quite a while, hours and hours, and Adam thought maybe it had been long enough for it all to settle, for it all to sink in so that they could talk about it, talk about the fact that some of their closest friends were zombies now. That one of them had sunk his teeth into Matt. That according to all the conventions that any of them knew, Matt was going to be coming after them himself in a few hours. Maybe he should have already.

"The fuck?" Matt's voice is hoarse, as if he'd been screaming for hours straight. Maybe, Adam thinks, just maybe he has been, on the inside. And his throat knew what was up. "What's that supposed to mean? It's Jer. How, how was I supposed to know there was anything wrong? He's always like that."

Adam looks at the others again. Fazzi's holding a little first-aid kit emblazoned with the Band-Aid logo. Adam wonders for a second where he got it from. Fazzi looks like he's wondering where he got it from too, because he's staring at it in his hands like it just appeared there. He must have grabbed it off a shelf, and Adam thinks that's awfully sweet. Especially when Fazzi looks up and smiles, even though it doesn't reach his eyes. Trust Fazzi to smile through the apocalypse.

"Let me patch that up." He looks down at the kit again, still vaguely confused in the shape of his eyebrows. "I'm not really trained or anything, but I've gotta do something with my hands."

Matt doesn't respond, he's too busy staring at the nothing in the corner of the room, but when Fazzi goes to take a step forward, Eddie throws an arm out, catching Fazzi in the chest and stopping him cold.

"So _he_ can bite _you_? Fat chance."

The tension rises again, Adam can practically feel it creeping over his skin, making all the little hairs stand on end. Adam wrings his hands for a moment before remembering his cigarettes, remembering he really needs one. He fishes them out of his pocket and lights one with a shaking hand, wondering momentarily if he should maybe be in the Designated Smoking Area. Maybe it doesn't matter during the apocalypse.

"What?" Mark returns from across the room where he was checking the integrity of the emergency exit. "Eddie, _what_?"

"I know this shit as well as you do, as well as any of you." Eddie's almost snarling, like an angry cat. Angry wolf, Adam reminds himself. Him and Mark are facing off in a show of dominance, if they had fur all their hackles would be raised.

"Except for me." Fazzi's voice is timid, he's clutching the first aide kit like a security blanket now, looking towards Adam for help. Adam doesn't know what to do, so he holds his cigarette towards Fazzi, who surprises him by grabbing it and taking an amateur drag. Matt's still staring, thought his gazed has moved up to take in the blank wall, but he's still breathing, and he's still _bleeding_ , and he's definitely not eating any of them yet, he's just sitting there. So Adam's pretty sure the bite-equals-instant-zombie theory is out. If that had been the case, Matt would have gone crazy while they were on the road.

"Except for Fazzi." Eddie corrects himself with good nature, which kind of contrasts jarringly with the frightened glare he shoots at Matt a second later. "He's dangerous, Mark, you know that."

"I'm going to be dangerous in a minute if you don't shut up." Mark's voice is soft and alarming and it kind of scares Adam a little even though he hadn't said anything and that voice wasn't even directed at him. "Matt's not going to flip shit and start chewing on us, he's not. It's _Matt_."

"Doesn't matter who it is. A bite is a bite, a zombie is a fucking zombie, and we should cut his head off before he kills the rest of us."

" _No_!" Fazzi's voice is high-pitched, distressed, and damn straight scared.

"Eddie, what, what are you talkin' about?" Adam adds, taking a step closer, afraid for a second that he's going to have to try and hold Mark back to keep Mark from killing Eddie. He hopes that, if it comes to that, Fazzi will help him. Because Matt's in no condition, and Adam definitely can't hold Mark still by himself. "You're talkin' about killing him? It's Matt, our Matty, are you serious? You're just scared man, and that's cool." Adam keeps moving forward, and he's encouraged by the feeling of Fazzi right at his elbow. "We're all scared. But you can't be serious."

"I'm fucking serious," And he sounds it too. Adam manages to get between Mark and Eddie, and he's just the right height to break their eye contact. He can practically feel Mark seething behind him.

"Adam, you've seen as many zombie movies as I have, we all have,"

"Except for me."

Adam tosses a quick smile at Fazzi, gesturing widely. "Yeah, man, you can't be blamed for that, though. You haven't really toured with the Way brothers, we'll give you a pass on this one."

"And you know," Eddie continues, glancing at Matt again, more wary this time. "You know that it's only a matter of time. It's always only a matter of time. This isn't a parody, Adam, this isn't even a movie. This is real, it's fucked up and it's real, and we're not gonna be able to keep him as a fucking... pet."

Adam can almost feel Mark beside him, about to explode with rage, and it's understandable. Matt and Mark had been best friends for a long time, and now Eddie was talking like he wanted nothing more than to kill Matt, and he's making a kind of sense, and it's freaking Adam out. This division in the band is terrifying to Adam, he hates any kind of tension between them. Things had been so good since they'd found Fazzi.

"We watched Jer tear a piece out of him like it was nothing. _Jer_ , of all people. And you're gonna tell me that the thought of _him_ like that doesn't scare the shit out of you?"

"Eddie..." Mark's voice has a note of warning to it, and there's a long stretch of silence after the unspoken threat.

"Can you guys please stop talking about me like I'm in the next room?" Matt's voice is still hoarse, all rough around the edges, it actually sounds painful to Adam's ears. He can't imagine his own voice sounding that torn up, even though he's sure it's been that bad before. He turns to look at Matt, and he notices that Matt is staring at his hand now. At the blood on his hand, at his fingers still trembling. Adam notices through the blood that there's a tinge of grey to the skin around the edges of the wound, and Adam's heart is kind of beating really painfully in his throat.

Matt clears his throat and closes his eyes, finally leaning back in his chair. "I'm not gonna bite you, Matt, I swear. Please, just come stick a piece of gauze on this gaping fucking wound on my neck." When no one moves, Matt opens one eye, just a sliver. "If I bite you, I'll put in a good word for you at the pearly gates before they send me to hell."

Fazzi snaps out of his daze and, ignoring the way Eddie goes tense and makes a little noise that might as well be a full sentence worth of _don't be a fucking idiot_ , he practically scurries to Matt's side, crouching down beside him and scratching at the plastic wrap around the kit.

Mark leans around Adam to give Eddie a withering glare. Adam steps back, hoping that the glaring match had diffused itself. Or maybe Matt had diffused it. "Show me a more eloquent fucking zombie." Mark snarls, gesturing towards Matt, just sitting there, almost serene-looking with his head tilted to the side so Fazzi can swab at the wound with antiseptic. He isn't even flinching, though Adam imagines that must burn like shit.

Eddie still doesn't look convinced, even after Mark shoves him and returns to the emergency exit. Eddie doesn't retaliate, so Adam considers the match as momentarily belonging to Mark.

Considering his self-professed inexpertness, Fazzi does what Adam thinks is an admirable job of bandaging Matt's neck. Except for how the gauze he covers the bite with turns red in spots almost before he's done taping it into place. Matt's still bleeding really bad, and Adam doesn't really want him to die of blood-loss any more than he wants him to become a zombie and try to eat them and get his head cut off by Eddie.

"I'm not going to turn into a zombie." Matt's voice still sounds rough, and pained, like the wound on his neck tore right through to his vocal chords. But he sits up a little straighter now that there's no blood trickling down his chest, and he opens his eyes and they're actually pretty clear, Adam thinks. They're not turning green yet, which he's sure they will before they go yellow. And eventually black. He clears his throat with a little grimace, and shakes his head, slowly and stiffly, favoring his left side. "Fuck, do we have anything to drink?"

"Good point." Mark returns to the little knot of people that Adam really wishes felt more like a bow. "A couple of us should go get some stuff from out in the store... Fazzi, you wanna come with me?"

Fazzi is looking down at his first aide kit like it will provide him with another wound to bandage, wringing his hands to keep them moving. Adam feels bad, Fazzi's not big on the horror movies, this has got to be even more frightening for him. He figures Eddie's conviction that Matt's about to tear them all apart must be freaking Fazzi out more than anything, and he makes a mental note to have a talk with Eddie about maybe shutting up a little bit, for Fazzi's sake if nothing else.

Eventually Fazzi gets back to his feet, and he reaches out to pat Matt on the shoulder. He jumps when Matt's hand closes over his for a moment before falling away, and Fazzi breathes again when he realizes that Matt isn't lunging for his throat. Matt's eyes are closed, but he manages a weak little smile. "Thanks, Fazz."

Mark actually holds an arm out when Fazzi gets near him, and he drapes that arm around Fazzi's shoulders, digging a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offering Fazzi one to have to himself. Adam's still somewhat surprised that he takes it, maybe not because Fazzi doesn't smoke (though he doesn't) but because Mark smokes those god awful mentholated cigarettes, and Adam personally just can't stand them.

Mark lights his own, lights Fazzi's, and they leave the break room, Mark tossing a warning glance at Eddie over his shoulder before the door closes.

Eddie looks at Matt for a second, sitting there all quiet like he's asleep. And then he turns and walks into the Designated Smoking Area without a second look back. Adam thinks about going with him, talking to him, but he really thinks that Eddie is overreacting. He's not the one with the wound that's somehow still bleeding hours later, and really, maybe he should man up. Even if Matt is about to start thirsting for their blood (that was more of a vampire thing, though), they should still make his last moments of being Matt good ones. Not freak him out by talking about cutting off his damn head. That's just not cool.

So Adam lets Eddie close himself off and cool his heels, and instead chooses to move closer to Matt, pulling up a chair and turning it around, straddling it backwards. He digs out his cigarettes again, lighting one with a little sigh before folding his arms over the back of the chair. "Hangin' in there, little big?"

Matt's eyes blink open like Adam had woken him up from a light nap. And he smiles, and it's the same old Matt smile, with the tilt that indicates slight displeasure with Adam jibing at his height. This is encouraging to Adam. He just tries to ignore what sounds suspiciously like Eddie breaking shit in the Designated Smoking Area.

"I'm fuckin' tired, Adam." Matt's voice has softened a little, but Adam just thinks that maybe he's not straining to make himself heard now. It still sounds weak, like maybe it would if Matt had ever had the stuffed nose and sore throat half-cold that Adam seemed to have ten months out of the year. Matt only ever got sick if it was serious, though. His immune system was made of steel and barbed wire, where as Adam's was more like tissue paper and some sparkling ribbon. "I'm really tired, and I am so mad at you fuckers. But I don't have the energy to kick the shit out of Eddie for being an asshole."

"He's just scared, man, I think we all are."

Matt actually laughs at this, slumping in his chair a little. Not being able to see the wound on his neck puts Adam a lot more at ease, even if the gauze is almost entirely pink now, creeping darker towards red. Basically, Adam's relieved that he doesn't have to look at the way the skin around the wound was definitely becoming grey. That was too much for Adam.

" _I'm_ not fucking scared, I'm pissed. I got fucking _bitten_ by Jer. And you guys are acting like I'm already dead. I'm fine, except for the _hole in my neck_." Adam notices that Matt's rubbing his hand on his jeans, kind of subconsciously, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. It's not doing much more than drying the blood into the lines of his hand, though.

"Matty, I don't mean to be a jerk or anything, but like. It's pretty much, like, old news now. That if you get bitten by a zombie, you're next."

"Says who?" Matt clears his throat again, like there's something stuck, scratching and irritating. It sounds that way, anyway.

"Says, you know. Everyone who seems to know more about this than us. George Romero and Max Brooks."

Matt scoffs, rolling his eyes. "You sound like Gerard."

Adam can't help but smile at this, his eyes squinting up with amusement. "Yeah, well, that's 'cause I'm quoting him. Kinda."

"I know." Matt goes a little limp, sliding down in his chair. Adam doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Matt sort of shakes himself and sits up again. Adam lets his breath out, shaky like his shaky smile. "But that's still all fiction, Adam. Those guys, they made all that up. They didn't realize it was possible, no one did. It shouldn't _be_ possible."

"Yeah, man, I know, but..." Adam doesn't even know what he's planning on saying, so the sound of the door behind him slamming open is a welcome interruption. Fazzi is pushing a shopping cart full of so much stuff that Adam can't even identify most of it at a glance, and Mark...

Mark is holding a skein of rope, and has a baseball bat in his other hand, resting on his shoulder. The way he walks, kind of like he's in a gang that none of them know about, it's enhanced by his current accessories, and Adam's a little bothered by it. It doesn't look like Mark at all.

Adam stands up from his chair, reaching down to touch Matt's good shoulder with fleeting fingertips before turning to Fazzi, grinning widely and getting a smile in return. They can certainly pretend like everything's okay, just for a second. They're really good at pretending. Mark looks around, frowning, spinning the bat with his fingertips. "Where's Eddie?"

"He went into the other room." Adam gestures towards the Designated Smoking Area. The sounds of destruction had tapered off at some point. Mark crosses the room to peer in through the wide window in the wall, then nods, apparently pleased that Eddie is still alive, just brooding.

Adam turns his attention to Fazzi's cart, pawing through it. Energy drinks and highly caffeinated sodas and bottled water, crackers and little individual cups of fruit and vegetables and some pudding too. There's a couple cartons of Newports, and a couple cartons of Parliaments. There's also an array of things from the pharmacy section; bottles of pain killers and caffeine pills and rolls of gauze and fabric tape. And there's also a little camping hatchet, which makes Adam's chest hurt in a weird way. He knows they need to be prepared for any eventuality, including the Zombie Matt eventuality, but he hates the thought.

"Marky." It's Matt's weak voice using the pet name that makes Adam turn back around. Mark's crouched down in front of Matt, the baseball bat is sitting off to the side, not even quite within Mark's arm's reach. Adam takes this as a sign that, at least for now, Mark trusts Matt too. He hopes their trust isn't going to backfire. Mark's still holding the rope, though, with both hands, gripping it hard enough to make his knuckles pale.

"Come on, Marky, don't do this to me."

"I wanna trust you, Matt, I really do. If anyone can get through something like this, I know damn well that it's you." Mark twists the rope between his hands, tugging on it nervously. "But we've got to think of everybody. You know? I'm asking you for your permission." Adam doesn't like the sound of that at all, especially not when Matt seems to kind of deflate a little. It's not like Matt to back down from anything like that, to give up as if he could care less. It's not like Matt at all.

"Fine," Matt sits up a bit. His face scrunches up when he shifts to lift his arms over his head, his fingers curling and making several distinct snaps as his knuckles pop. "Just gimme a second, okay?" Mark nods, scooting away from Matt. Adam grimaces at some of the sounds Matt's joints are making as he stands slowly, with much help from the back of his chair, stretching and then lowering his arms again and sighing as the strain on his wound lessens.

Matt tilts his head sharply the one direction he can, and his neck gives a frighteningly loud crack. He seems not to be bothered by the way he sounds like a plastic Halloween skeleton on a windy night, so Adam decides not to comment. The hand on Matt's bad side grips uselessly at the hem of his ruined shirt for a second before he manages to get the fingers to cooperate, wriggling his shirt off and tossing it away. Adam notices how it's stained, bright splashes and sprays of red on the light shade of blue it had been at the start of the day. Matt had bled a lot, there was still a big stain that had seeped through his shirt to his bare skin, not to mention the blood that had made it all the way down to the waistband of his jeans. It was a wonder Matt hadn't already passed out from blood loss.

Matt sits back down in the chair and scoots it away from the table a bit, looking at Mark. Mark nods, and Matt heaves a heavy sigh, shifting to put his arms behind the back of the chair, pressing his forearms together, each hand against it's opposite elbow. Adam realizes then exactly what's going on, and he grips the edges of the shopping cart, not noticing the way the rusted wire making it up is sharp in some places, cutting into his hand a little. "Ah, shit." He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, not so quickly.

But it has, Mark is, with surprising efficiency, wrapping loops of rope around Matt's arms, binding them together.

"Not too tight!" Fazzi calls out quite suddenly, and Mark looks over his shoulder at them, giving them a little Mark smile and glancing up at Matt questioningly.

"It's fine." Matt wiggles his fingers as proof, and Mark uses up the rest of the rope weaving Matt's arms to the back of the chair itself, and then checking to make sure that the knots are strong and that the ropes are going to hold. For a while, at least. Adam has an inkling that rope might not be enough. It's gotta be pretty impressive rope, though. Adam knows that Walmart sells that crazy rope that people use with sailing and anchors and all that. So he hopes it'll be okay. If it's even necessary. He hopes it's not.

Mark scoots back and Matt tugs at his bound arms, testing then wrangling one hand to give them a momentary thumbs up. Adam notices the way Mark swipes his fingers under his eyes under the pretense of wiping his face. Mark's not much of a crier, but he's been known to shed a few tears, and that's exactly what he's doing now, while trying to pretend he's not at the same time. Adam can't imagine having to sit there and tie up someone as close to you as a brother. He tries, for a second, tries to imagine tying Nate up out of fear that Nate was going to become a zombie and try to kill him. He can't deal with the thought, though, he can't put himself in Mark's position right now. Plus, he doesn't want to think about Nate right now.

"Can I have something to drink now, please?" Matt says. His voice, though weak, still has that taunting lilt to it that is wholly Matt, and Adam smiles, pulling a bottle of water out of Fazzi's cart. He cracks it open and then Fazzi's touching his arm, pulling a little package of bendy straws out of the corner of the cart. Adam smiles at him and takes the offered straw, bringing the water to Matt and crouching down beside him, holding the bottle for him while he drinks nearly the entire thing in a few deep gulps.

Mark stands up and puts his hand on Matt's good shoulder, and Matt shifts a bit, arching his back and pressing his head against Mark's stomach for lack of a better way to show his affection. Adam's reminded of his earlier thought of them as a pack of wolves. Mark's hand moves to fluff Matt's hair, and then he pulls away, the affection between a pair of long time best friends only fleeting at best. Mark heads across the room and moves through the Designated Smoking Area door.

Adam pulls a chair closer to Matt, hating himself that he feels more at ease being in proximity to Matt now that Matt's tied up. He feels awful for it, but that must be the way things go. Adam motions Fazzi over and he comes, pulling up a chair of his own and perching in it, pulling his knees up. Adam crosses his legs at the knee, and reaches one long arm into Fazzi's cart. "We should eat something, huh?"

"Yes." Matt says this with a ton of emphasis, and Adam wonders if he can even be hungry when he's still bleeding from the neck. Maybe he's just trying to seem like he's still human. If that's the case, Adam appreciates the effort. "Anything. What is there?"

"Man, this little fruit cup has fuckin' pomegranate in it. That's intense."

Fazzi is picking at a candy bar he'd produced from somewhere, peering back and forth between Adam and Matt through his glasses which Adam notices could really use a good cleaning. It's a wonder he didn't pick up anything to clean them with. Adam finds a package of plastic flatware in the cart and pops open the fruit cup he'd found.

He feels even more awful about standing idly by while Mark tied Matt up now that he honest to god has to feed Matt like he's a baby. Matt seems to be taking the embarrassment in stride, though, so Adam doesn't comment, just silently berates himself for being a shitty friend. Matt having been bitten in the first place was the fault of a friend, and it's the least Adam can do to show Matt the same trust Matt had shown Jer. But instead he's just partied with the rest of the band in accusing Matt and finding him guilty until proven innocent. He feels like a terrible jerk. But at least he wasn't threatening to cut Matt's head off. That was all Eddie.

Matt actually eats all of the fruit cup, and then Fazzi holds another bottle of water for him while Adam helps himself to a pudding cup. It's almost too sweet, considering the situation in which he's eating it.

"I'm going to get through this." Matt says quite suddenly, drawing a head-tilt from Fazzi and a smile from Adam. His voice sounds a lot better now, and Adam's heart beats with renewed hope. Matt smirks, just like he always does when he's being a little shit. "If just to prove that you're all a bunch of pussies."

The door to the Designated Smoking Area opens, and Mark and Eddie both come out, Eddie with his arms crossed uncomfortably over his chest. Mark clears his throat to gather attention to himself, and Adam's kind of amazed at Mark for a moment. Mark was usually so shy and quiet. He'd really stepped up in a crisis, and Adam is so thankful that he has such great friends. Even Eddie, because it's not every day that someone's willing to cut off the head of one of his dearest friends to protect the rest of them.

"We think maybe we should try to get some rest, in case we have to run tomorrow. Or, like, even tonight." Adam's pretty sure only he notices the way Mark glances at Matt, as if trying to figure out whether he's close to going over the edge. Matt seems almost chipper to Adam, all things considered. Maybe he'd just needed some food in him. Maybe the antioxidants the fruit cup advertised as being chock full of would help.

"But we don't want to just leave Matt alone, right?" Mark glances at everyone, making a special effort to make eye contact with Matt, who obliges and shrugs on his good side.

Mark pats Eddie on the arm. "Eddie's going to take first, uh, first shift."

"First watch, you mean?" Matt laughs, and his laugh sounds just as raspy as his voice had early, it kind of freaks Adam out a little. Matt's laughing like a psycho in a crappy slasher flick. "Hopefully not just watching me?"

"No." Mark's voice is firm and commanding and Adam feels a ridiculous surge of affection for his drummer. "For anyone that might be a threat. We're not one hundred percent safe, here or anywhere else. Someone should be awake at all times. So we're going to go in shifts, and Eddie's going to be the first..." Mark leaves it unspoken, but Adam's aware that Eddie probably only agreed to go on watch at all if he could be first, and thus the least likely, by however small a margin, to have to deal with the possibility of Matt going completely zombie.

"What, uh, what about..." Fazzi pushes his glasses up his nose with the edge of his forefinger, his eyes flicking between Matt and Eddie. "Well..."

Eddie rolled his eyes, just a bit, just enough to be noticeable. "I'm not going to kill Matt while you're all asleep."

"We had a talk." Mark says, crossing the room to crouch down between Fazzi and Adam, right in front of Matt. He looks up into Matt's face, then leans forward, putting his hands on Matt's knees to make contact with him. Matt looks up, and Adam can see the way Matt and Mark are conversing in silence. It's kind of amazing. They understand each other in such a deep way, it almost reminds Adam of Gerard and Mikey Way. Matt leans down as far as he can with his arms so tightly held behind the chair, and presses his head to Mark's. After a moment, Mark sits back, and he does that wiping-under-his-eyes thing again. It's not as noticeable as the red around Matt's eyes, though, and the tears edging his lashes.

"If something happens, we all know the steps to take." Mark says this as if it's the end of a long conversation that none of the rest of them had been privy to. But the point is clear, especially when Matt nods determinedly. Adam's pretty sure Matt just agreed that they should kill him if he goes over the edge, and Adam thinks that's incredibly brave and selfless.

"Come on, guys." Mark stands up, tossing a Red Bull towards Eddie and then digging some food and a few bottles of water out of Fazzi's cart, making for the Designated Smoking Area door again. Adam leans forward to give Matt's good shoulder a strong grip. Matt smiles at him even though there's still tears in his eyes, and Adam feels terrible for getting up and edging closer to Mark, giving Eddie a brief pat on the shoulder as he passes. They still need to be in this together, that's what Adam thinks.

Fazzi gets up and joins Mark and Adam at the side door. "Two hours, Eddie." Mark says this with an air of reminder as opposed to command, and Eddie nods, shifting about the chairs Adam and Fazzi had vacated, sitting in one and putting his feet up in the other and popping open his Red Bull can.

Adam's pretty sure this is going to be one of the longest nights of his life, even longer than the night before, when the five of them had made their way through the city in the dead of night, dodging marauding groups of shambling corpses. Mark turns off the light in the Designated Smoking Area, which is just like the bigger break room, but half the size, with ash trays on every table. Enough light comes in from the other break room through the window to not leave them in utter darkness, which Adam appreciates. They each settle down on top of a table, and Adam smiles at the sound of a flicking lighter, indicating that he's probably not going to be alone in being unable to sleep.

 

Eddie and Matt sat in silence for a long while. It wasn't just that Matt couldn't check his watch, his watch was gone for good as far as he knew. Jer had grabbed his wrist with crazy zombie strength before biting him, and in twisting to escape, Matt had torn into Jer's hand with the watch's buckle, and the leather strap had broken. His watch was gone. And he couldn't turn his head enough to see the battery powered clock on the wall, so he had no idea what time it was, nor how much time had passed.

Eddie drank the entire can of Red Bull quietly and quickly, even though Matt was as aware as he that Red Bull wasn't usually very effective to Eddie. He could sleep through a thunderstorm after drinking a pot of coffee. It was just how he was. Matt hates that he's worried Eddie will fall asleep. For one, that's definitely rude, thinking so lowly of Eddie's ability to keep look-out trying to keep his friends safe. And for two, Matt doesn't want to be left alone in the chance that he becomes a zombie. He doesn't want to live, or un-live, like that, at all. If he's going to be come a fucking zombie, he wants to be killed before it gets out of control. And he definitely doesn't want to hurt any of his friends.

Eddie seems fine, though. Glancing at his watch occasionally, but not obsessively. And keeping an eye on Matt. Matt wonders what's going on in Eddie's head. He wonders if Eddie might not rather just kill him now to save them all the trouble. The thought makes Matt distinctly uncomfortable.

"Eddie?" He finally tests out his voice, finding that it's swiftly degenerating into a rasp again. He hopes that's not a side effect of zombism. "Eddie, could I have a drink?"

Matt's almost sure that Eddie's going to refuse, not wanting to get that close, but much to Matt's surprise he stands up, retrieving a bottle of water and a straw as if he knew exactly what had been going on the whole time. Eddie was like that sometimes, almost omniscient. It was a fleeting state of being, and he often denied it as ever happening. But it did.

Matt drinks deeply and he can actually feel his throat start to feel better, less dry, less raw. He blinks up at Eddie when he's done, clearing his throat. "Eddie..."

Eddie shakes his head, setting the bottle down on the table beside Matt and, after a moment's deliberation, setting his hand down on Matt's shoulder, his arm within reach of Matt's mouth. Matt takes this as a sign that Eddie trusts him again, and he appreciates it more than he thought he would.

"I'm sorry." Eddie shrugs a bit, avoiding meeting Matt's eyes. "I overreacted. And it was pretty fucked up of me."

"It's okay." Matt tries to smile, but every muscle in his body feels tired, too tired to move even in the tiny ways it takes to lift the corners of his mouth.

Eddie shakes his head. "It's not, really. I don't want to kill you, Matt, you know? I just, I just don't want to die."

"I know." Matt says, nodding. And he does, he really does. "I feel the same way, I swear."

Eddie sits back down in his chair, turning it a bit to face Matt. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore. And Tired." Matt responds honestly, rolling his good shoulder and wishing that he could do the same on the other side. The rope really isn't too tight, thankfully, but having your arms in one somewhat awkward position like that for any lengthy period of time got exponentially uncomfortable. "But, I don't know, man. I don't feel like eating your brains, or your flesh, or even blood. I just want to take some Advil PM and a nap."

"Doesn't sound very zombie like."

"No." Matt agrees, tilting his head again. "But. The, uh, the wound. It burns, you know? Not in the antiseptic kind of way, either. I... There's definitely something fucked up going on around my shoulder." Matt admits this hoping it's not enough to inspire Eddie to get up and come at him with the axe right away. Eddie doesn't move except for a yawn, not a yawn of boredom with Matt's revelation but a yawn of utter exhaustion. Matt can definitely get on board with that, even if he doesn't have any compulsion to yawn, which is probably a bad sign, all things considered.

"I think Fazzi's going to take next watch, he can clean it up again. Kinda messed up that it's still bleeding, though. Shouldn't it have clotted by now?"

"You'd think so." Matt shrugs his one good shoulder again. "I figure it can't hurt to take a megadose of painkillers. I mean, either it works and I'm in less pain, or it doesn't work and I'm in the same amount of pain."

"Yeah."

They fall into a slightly more comfortable silence, though Matt still wonders if Eddie isn't thinking that Matt's hours from death, possibly at the hands of his closest friends in the world. If maybe this more stoic, more serious Eddie is the Eddie that would sit and hold vigil in a hospital room and be somber with a grandparent passing away. It seems that way to Matt, and Matt hates the idea that this is his proverbial death bed, tied to a chair in the break room of a Walmart in New Jersey.

Matt figures he must have dozed off, which he takes as a good sign when he returns to full consciousness to find Eddie standing up, stretching and heading towards the other door. Zombies certainly didn't sleep, they weren't like vampires. Things would be a lot easier that way.

"Changing of the guard?" He asks, his voice having taken a nose-dive back into crypt-keeper rasp in the interim.

"Sure is. Just in time, too, you got all comatose on me, and I could barely stay awake."

"I'm glad you did." Matt frowns at the water bottle on the table beside him. Under average circumstances, it wouldn't even take thought for him to reach out and grab it. But as it was, it was just that far out of reach.

"Me too," Eddie admits, pausing at the door with his hand on the handle. "Hey,"

Matt looks away from the taunting water and Eddie smiles at him. Matt summons all his strength to return it, though it falters and fails in only seconds.

"I, I hope you get through this, Jewbano. Hate to lose you."

"Thanks, Eddie."

Eddie ducked through the door into the dark room beyond, leaving Matt alone and returning to his contemplation of the water bottle. If the table was just a little closer, or the chair was just a little closer to the table, he could lean over and get the straw in his mouth. He tries anyway, but it's definitely too far away.

The door opens again and even though Fazzi's eyes are still squinty in the corners like he'd just woken up (which Matt hopes he has, he hopes they're all actually resting) and he's still in the process of getting his glasses to sit on his face they way they should, he notices what Matt's up to and practically sprints across the room to snatch up the bottle and move it close enough for Matt to drink from.

"Alright, man?" In a typical Fazzi fashion, he asks the question even though Matt's mouth is full of straw and water. Matt almost chokes trying to swallow quickly enough to answer, and he would totally be putting a comforting arm around Fazzi's shoulders right now if he could, just to ease the look of worry and fear in Fazzi's eyes. Matt's pretty sure he would lie outright to Fazzi just to make him stop looking like a lost child.

"I'm doing alright." Matt assures him, nodding even though he feels more like nodding off. "I hate to ask, but do you think you could replace the bandage? I, uh, I think it's still bleeding."

Fazzi gathers the extra gauze and tape from his cart before dropping to his knees at Matt's side. "That's not right, man." He says softly, drawing his ever more cherished first aide kit closer and flipping it open.

"You're telling me."

Matt tilts his head and takes a moment to appreciate how gentle Fazzi's being, pushing his hair back and carefully peeling away the make-shift bandage that is nonetheless a lot better than Matt had when Adam's mic had torn his head open.

Fazzi whistles under his breath, and then curses quietly, and Matt blinks his eyes open, glancing down at Fazzi with an eyebrow tweaked. "What's up?"

"It, uh, it looks bad, man. Real bad."

"I'm gonna go against my better judgement and ask you to be honest with me, Fazzi." Matt says this seriously, and Fazzi looks up to meet his eyes as if half hoping that Matt will dismiss this request as easily as he had made it. No dice, all Fazzi gets for his trouble is the first hint of Matt's eyes being not the color they should be. Matt's eyes are usually such a distinct shade of blue. Seeing them with a tinge of green that Fazzi can't blame on the unforgiving fluorescent lights sends a chill down Fazzi's spine that is almost painful.

"It's definitely still bleeding." Fazzi starts off easy, with news that Matt can take, thanks to already suspecting as such. Matt grimaces anyway, and Fazzi distracts himself from the kind of awkward way Matt's face is moving by taking another bottle of water out of the cart, and using a square of gauze to start cleaning the dried blood from around the wound. "Which is pretty messed up, it really should be clotting. I mean, it's probably a good thing, right, because zombies don't bleed? But, man, I don't want you to lose too much blood. I think maybe if we keep it covered, it'll be okay, though. It's definitely not, like, spurting."

"There's more that you're not telling me, Fazzi. Come on, I want to know."

"Well." Fazzi has cleaned off enough blood to know that his initial reaction hadn't been inspired by any trick of light or shadow. "Your skin, all around it. It's seriously... not the right color. It's, like, yellow and gray, and. It's freaky, man, I'm sorry."

Matt goes a little limp while Fazzi finishes cleaning him off and half-heartedly splashes some antiseptic onto a fresh square of gauze and starts cleaning the wound as though he doesn't expect it to make much difference. Matt doesn't, really, either.

Fazzi goes about replacing the gauze, feeling a little better about the wound now that it's clean. He pats Matt's arm, sitting back on his heels and rubbing his hands together. He really wishes he had a guitar, or something to do with his hands. He decides to poke at his candy bar again, though he hasn't really eaten any of it, and he's not particularly hungry.

"You want something to eat?" He looks up at Matt, who's eyes had drifted shut. Matt hummed, then opened his eyes again.

"Huh?"

Fazzi's chocolate bar crumbled in his hands and he set it hastily down on the floor so as to not get it all over himself and melted. Fazzi had seen Matt in a lot of ways, but he'd never seen him so unresponsive. Matt always woke up one hundred percent awake, and even if he didn't sleep for over a day, he was never groggy or distracted like that. And he was hardly that nearly narcoleptic that Adam got sometimes, passing out in the bus lounge without a moments notice. Matt wasn't like that, not at all.

"I asked if you were hungry."

"No." Matt shook his head slowly, turning his head in Fazzi's direction. The chill in Fazzi's spine was back, still needling it's way into his subconscious. Matt's eyes weren't even focusing, and Fazzi lifted a hand to touch fingertips to Matt's cheek. Matt's eyes tracked slowly after Fazzi's reach, but it was strange enough that Fazzi was aware of the wrongness, especially when he felt how cold and clammy Matt's cheek felt under his fingers.

"Man. Oh, man, come on. I can't do this, I don't know what's going on. Don't go, Matt." He shifted his hand, cupping Matt's cheek with his palm, half hoping he can warm Matt's skin with his own. "At risk of sounding, like, completely ridiculous, hold on." It doesn't even occur to Fazzi how stupid he's being, how easy it would be for Matt to bite him right now, if he's become a zombie.

Matt shifts, closing and then opening his eyes. They've still got that greenish tinge, but they focus after a moment, Fazzi can tell that Matt's looking right into his eyes, and he breaths a sigh of relief. Matt cracks a little smile, and it's encouraging enough that Fazzi doesn't even notice how dry and chapped Matt's lips have become in just a few hours time.

"I'd never do that to you, Fazzi." His voice isn't even rough and raw anymore, it's just hushed, a whisper for a house of worship.

Fazzi nods, smiling as encouragingly as he can manage. Matt gives him a little smirk, it seems to be about all he can manage. Fazzi will take it, so long as Matt keeps looking into his eyes like he is. "I don't know a lot about zombies, I haven't seen the movies or read the books. I think you can beat it."

"I hope so."

Fazzi doesn't move from where he is, holding Matt's gaze, when he hears the door open. Mark clears his throat, glancing at the little scene before him. Mark feels like there's a heavy block of ice in his stomach, and it seems to be growing.

"Everything okay?" He asks, moving closer, fighting back the instinct that's telling him to pull Fazzi away from Matt before Matt turns his head and sinks his teeth into Fazzi's arm. Matt doesn't seem to be making any motions in that direction at all, he seems pretty intently focused on Fazzi's eyes. The instinct is still there, though, and Mark appeases it by putting a hand on Fazzi's shoulder, gripping tight, ready to pull him back should anything happen. Fazzi finally tears his gaze away from Matt's to look up at Mark, and he gives him a hopeful smile.

"I think so, for now. Has it been two hours already?"

"Close enough. You were actually asleep, and you should get back to it." Mark shrugs a bit, and Fazzi stands up. Neither of them notice the way Matt's lip curls, almost like a snarl over clenched teeth, when Fazzi pulls his hand away from Matt's cheek.

Mark lets another instinct take over, putting his arms around Fazzi and pulling him into a tight hug. Mark can't imagine being such a non-horror fan as Fazzi, being stuck in a situation like this for real. "Go get some sleep." He says right next to Fazzi's ear. Fazzi pulls away after a minute and heads towards the other door, glancing back at Matt as he goes.

"Hold on, Matt." He leaves them with that, ducking back into the other room.

The door closes behind him, and Mark pulls a chair over, straddling it and leaning close.

Matt gulps a bit, Mark notices the way his throat is working to speak before the words actually make it out, all soft like he's afraid of being heard. "I would have thought Adam would be next."

"He just got to sleep, thought I'd let him get some rest."

Mark pulls the shopping cart closer, digging out a bottle of classic Coke and cracking it open, taking a sip before retrieving a straw. Matt stares at the bottle in front of him for a long moment, that's when Mark notices the shade of Matt's eyes. Lightening again, away from green and towards yellow. Mark's stomach drops down to somewhere around his knees, and for a second he almost feels like he's about to gag, like he's going to be sick. But then Matt leans forward, catching the straw in his mouth and taking a sip of the soda. He wrinkles his face up like the bubbles were tickling his nose, and it was a face Mark recognized well from when they were kids, even if the eyes, an almost feline shade of yellow, were totally out of place. "So I figured I'd take my turn."

"You haven't slept, have you?"

"You know me better than that, dude." Mark smirks slightly, then looks around the room as if only just realizing where the hell they were. "There hasn't been any, like, disturbance, has there?"

"You mean besides my skin turning grey? Not that I know of."

Mark nods. He figures if Matt were as close to zombism as Mark feared, Matt would sadly be the first to know if any other zombies were about to come bursting in on them. It wouldn't make any difference, though, if Matt changed. Mark back tracks after a moment, looking up to catch Matt's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Fazzi says my skin's all fucked up around the bite." That's when Mark notices the way Matt's breath has become shallow, his tiny whisper almost breathless.

"Matty, does breathing hurt?"

"Huh? No. Why?"

"Because you barely are." Mark doesn't see any reason to beat around the bush with this, to avoid telling Matt things that might be important. Sure, they'd come to the conclusion that a zombie Matt was no Matt at all, and if it came down to being zombie Matt, zombie Matt was going to have to die. They'd come to that conclusion and Matt had agreed to it, as anyone can agree to their own death when they'd never been suicidal. Mark wanted to keep Matt clued in on his progress, it wouldn't be fair otherwise.

"What?" Matt's not following, it's like he's not even listening. Mark notices that his assumption is right, not only is Matt taking in just the smallest breaths, but they're few and far between.

"You're not really breathing, Matt, not like most people do."

"Huh." Matt shrugs a little, with both shoulders and he doesn't flinch the way he should, moving his bad shoulder like that, stretching and moving an open wound. "That sucks, huh?"

"Yeah, that kinda sucks a lot."

Matt turns his head, blinking a few times at Mark. And then he's looking into Mark's eyes, and his own eyes flare up with a spark of something Mark can't identify, but it's amplified by the way Matt's lips curl into an angry snarl. There's something violent in his eyes, something animalistic and fierce. Mark resists the temptation to scoot his chair away from Matt, but equally hard is resisting the temptation to touch him. Matt looks dangerous for just a second, and then he goes limp again, still looking into Mark's eyes. "Marky..."

Mark lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. "What's up, Matty?" The exchange of nicknames is comforting, especially because Mark knows the look in Matt's eyes now, eyes that are familiar in shape but all wrong in color. It's a cold look of determination.

"Maybe you should do it now. I'm. I'm losing ground, Marky." Mark has to strain to hear him, he even leans just a bit closer. "I can feel it. I can feel it in my heart, I'm losing it."

"Matt, no..."

"Yeah." Matt tilts his head a little, there's a little smile that looks more like his face is stuck that way than actually emotionally happy in any way. Which is really sad, it's a sad smile, a heart-broken scared smile. "I don't want Adam to have to do it, Marky. It's Adam, he won't. He'll. He'll hesitate. I don't want to hurt him."

Mark sits back, shaking his head. "I can't do it, Matt, not when you're still talking like that."

"Marky. Please. I was wrong earlier, it's only a matter of time. Please."

"You still sound like Matt to me. You're still thinking, and most importantly you're still thinking about us. Not just yourself. You're still you, and I can't, I can't k-kill you." Mark squints, trying to keep the tears that had sprung up in his eyes from falling.

" _Fuck_ ," Matt snarls, leaning forward suddenly, snapping his teeth in Mark's face. Mark leans back, almost falls backwards off his chair, scooting away, his heart in his throat. "Do it, Mark, fucking do it _now_ or I swear, I swear to god." Matt struggles suddenly, and Mark can hear the way the rope and the chair are straining to hold him, and the thought is terrifying. He flashes back momentarily to the scene at the recording studio, the destruction Ryan had caused, the destruction Ryan was still causing when they'd arrived. And Ryan, while a pretty strong guy, had nothing on the sheer muscle mass Matt had. Matt's strength was increasing. " _Do it_. I'll fucking bite you, I'll fucking tear you to _pieces_ , Mark, don't you get it?"

"Fuck you." Mark's voice is surprisingly steady, even to himself. He's shaking, he can actually feel his entire body trembling. But his voice is strong, and he borrows his overwhelming affection for Matt to give him a boost of courage, a bit of confidence. He circles around Matt, putting an arm around Matt's neck and shifting his arm just so, forcing Matt's head back. He sort of hugs Matt's head to his stomach, all of him well clear of Matt's mouth, and closes his eyes, and the tears he'd been fighting with for hours now finally escape, stealing down his cheeks. Matt stops struggling after a moment, though he's panting, Mark can feel him panting like a dog. "Keep fucking fighting." Mark's voice has lost some of it's steadiness, but it has all the more determination behind it for the way it cracks in the middle. "Fight."

Mark holds Matt like that for a long time, he's not sure how long but it's long enough that his arms feel stiff when he releases Matt and takes a step back, panting himself, gasping like a drowning man.

Matt's still, his head hanging back right where Mark left it. His mouth is open, and Mark can hear the sounds the tiny little breaths Matt's taking are making, and Mark's never actually realized what people meant when they described a death rattle. Mark breaks down, crumbling to his knees and burying his face in his hands and just _crying_.

Even though Mark's not much of a crier.

 

Adam wakes up with a start, he hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep and he feels just terrible for letting himself pass out. Even if he was exhausted. They were all exhausted, but Adam hadn't wanted to sleep, and here was waking up, and he squints in the darkness at his watch. It's after seven in the morning, he'd slept through the changing of the guard. They'd started at about midnight, give or take. Eddie had taken his shift, as far as Adam could remember. And then he'd come back and Fazzi had gone out. And that was all Adam remembered, he must have fallen asleep, and Mark had let him sleep. Stupid Mark. Why hadn't Mark woken Adam up at six, when he was supposed to take over?

Adam almost falls off the table he'd fallen asleep on, and he slams out into the main room, his heart beating painfully in his throat. And then he sees Matt, slumped in the chair with his head hanging back, looking every bit like a goddamn corpse. The discoloration from Matt's wound has spread beyond the edges of the bandage, sending thin streaks of grey up his neck towards his face, down his shoulder and over his chest.

Adam's heart stops beating, he thinks, just completely, but it stays where it's taken up residence in his throat, choking him. He thinks he's going to throw up, because if Matt is dead with his head still attached, he's a fucking zombie now, there's no doubt about it. You don't just die from a zombie bite, it would completely go against all conventions. And Adam doesn't think he's prepared to kill Matt, to cut his damned head off.

And where's Mark? Mark's no where to be seen during Adam's initial sweep of the room, but then he hears a little gasp, and while he half-hopes it's coming from Matt, he's just as relieved when he realizes that Mark is curled up on the floor behind Matt. Adam dashes around Matt to get to Mark, falling to his knees and ignoring the crack they make against the concrete based floor, ignoring the jolt of pain that right now is only good for reminding him that he's still alive. He gathers Mark into his arms and pulls him close, pressing his face to Mark's hair and gasping past the lump in his throat, willing words to come out.

And they do, in abundance.

"Marky, Marky, are you okay? Did he bite you? Is he gone? Marky, talk to me, Marky, tell me Matty's okay."

Mark came back to life with a shuddering gasp, and suddenly he was clutching at Adam's shirt like it was his only tether to the real world, and Adam wishes for a second that he could get Mark to let him go, because it's not fair to keep him anchored here in this shitty real world. It's not fair.

"I don't know." Mark's voice, in contrast to the look on his face and the salt tracks on his cheeks, is emotionless. Broken and weak and completely emotionless. Adam's heart isn't even broken, it's shattered, it's completely dust. "I don't know, he, he said he was going. He asked me to kill him, to protect us, I couldn't do it when he's looking at me and saying selfless shit like that. Zombies aren't selfless."

Adam glances up at Matt, behind them, limp in the chair. While Adam's watching, Matt's fingers twitch, and Adam nearly jumps out of his skin. He shakes his head to clear it and climbs to his feet, taking Mark with him. "Come on, Marky. You, you need some sleep. You've been out here longer than you should have been, you know that? I slept right through, 'cause you didn't come and get me." Adam's not sure where these reserves of strength are coming from, but he's going to use them to their fullest extent.

He leads Mark to the door, and when Mark seems unwilling to move that much on his own, Adam walks him right into the Designated Smoking Area, and lies Mark down on a table. He leans down over him and presses a silly little kiss to Mark's forehead. It's not much, but it's the best Adam can do.

He leaves Mark in there and returns to the main room, ready to face Matt, but maybe, probably not ready to kill him. He's still half hoping it won't come to that.

Adam doesn't realize how foolhardy he's being, pulling a chair close to Matt and sitting in it properly, scooting the chair right up next to Matt. If Matt's gone, if Matt's gained all the mindless strength that zombies do, the flimsy steel chair isn't going to restrain him. Ryan had broken through a thick sound-proofed studio door. Matt could tear through that rope like fucking wet pasta, if he was a zombie now. But Adam doesn't care. He needs to be close to Matt, because some stupid God-trusting part of Adam is still telling him that things are going to be okay.

That if anyone could actually throw off the zombie infection, it would be Matt. Matt, who had drunkenly made out with Frankie Iero once, a week before Frank was bedridden with a mono resurgence, and never caught mono. Matt, who toured with Adam for years and never caught any of his myriad of illnesses. Matt, who had never broken a bone, Matt who had taken a microphone to the head and got up to keep playing. Matt could be okay, if anyone could. And if Matt couldn't fight it off, they were all doomed anyway. That's what Adam thought.

"Matty, Matty, Matty." Adam reaches across him to put his hand on Matt's chest, and Adam's heart drops from his throat into his stomach and starts pounding painfully when he feels a heartbeat, too slow to be healthy but definitely still there. Matt's not dead. Maybe comatose, but not dead. He's not dead yet, he's still fighting somewhere, and Adam's crying before he even realizes it. "Matty! Wake up, come on, little buddy."

Matt lifts his head. Slowly, like it's about the hardest thing he's ever done. He lifts his head, and momentum carries his head forward. Chin to chest, Matt's eyes flutter open, Adam sees them open and he sees how dark they're getting, a dark golden yellow. Not at all Matt's eyes. He looks down at Adam's hand on his chest, and he takes a shuddering breath that Adam can feel stretching his ribs.

"Adam." Matt draws the name out, it sounds more like a sigh than anything, using every bit of air he'd just managed to pull in. He closes his eyes again, as if he can feel how their color is making Adam uncomfortable. He takes another one of those breaths that just feels painful under Adam's palm, it rattles in his throat. "Adam." He says again, just the same as the first time, though a little louder.

Adam leans closer, puts his nose in Matt's hair, whispers next to his ear. "What is it, Matty?" His other hand slips around Matt to touch Matt's back, right at the base of his neck. Matt's skin feels cold, deathly cold.

Matt breathes again, a long wheeze that can't really be bringing any air into his lungs at all. "I'm scared."

"Don't be scared, Matty. You're doing so well." Adam manages to keep his voice steady, even though he can feel his tears getting lost in Matt's hair. "Keep fighting."

"Can't." Another gasp, another wheeze. "Can't fight." Another wheeze, another gasp. "Anymore."

"You can do it. Matty, I know you can. We all do, we're all rooting for you." Adam stifles a sniffle, his hand slipping up a bit to grip the back of Matt's neck, grip and squeeze as if to pull him back from the edge.

"Don't, don't want." Matt's struggling to keep the words coming, struggling to stay himself. His mouth is pressed against Adam's wrist, and Adam realizes that he can feel Matt's words more than actually hear them, they're that quiet but he's trying so hard. "To hurt you."

"Matty..."

" _Please_."

Adam doesn't hear the feet pounding in the hallway outside the break room. He doesn't hear the words being spoken, indicating that whoever is outside are survivors, and not attackers. He can't hear anything, he's too focused on hearing Matt's words, on the feel of Matt's teeth against his skin. There's a fleeting hope that Matt will sink his teeth in so they can all go down together, and Adam doesn't even think to dismiss this thought.

The break room door slams open with a thunderous smack, the first body to come through is a blur of motion. Adam finally realizes they're not alone when he hears a clatter of metal skittering across concrete. Adam gasps when he's tackled, there's so much noise and motion after the silent stillness of his vigil with Matt, and the impact of hitting the floor knocks his breath clear out of him. His chair goes flying the other direction, and his grip on Matt's neck pulls Matt down too, the chair tilting on a single leg before crashing to the floor, thankfully sideways instead of straight backwards and right on top of Matt's arms.

Adam can feel himself being dragged away from Matt and he suddenly struggles, all long limbs and flailing. "Don't, don't kill him, he's not gone yet!" He screeches, his voice high pitched, nails on a chalk board. Whoever had tackled him holds him down, running a hand over the arm Adam had been envisioning Matt biting into.

"He's clean!" Adam recognizes the voice and his eyes fly open. Frank's body was heavier than Adam remembered.

"F-Frankie?"

Frank doesn't respond, he just shifts a bit, moving around behind Adam and pulling Adam pretty much into his lap, wrapping his arms around Adam's waist to hold him still. Adam watches with wide eyes as they march in, practically single file. Bob has a fucking axe strapped to his back, and an honest to god shotgun in his hand. He looks around the room like an old war hero and moves directly to the Designated Smoking Area door, kicking it open and using his left hand to reach across his body and turn on the lights, so he doesn't have to move his weapon from his dominant hand.

Ray comes in next, looking not at all like Ray with his hair pulled back into a curly ponytail. He has a plain black bag slung over one shoulder, and an armband with a red cross on it. Adam wonders right now if he's having a fucking dream or something.

The Way brothers come in side by side, Mikey facing back they way they'd come, holding a fucking handgun that Adam can't believe he knows how to fire. And Gerard, Gerard looking like a veteran of a long-waged war. He has a ton of gauze wrapped around his head, holding a square of gauze over one eye, and he's limping a step ahead of Mikey, his mismatched footsteps accented by the click of the cane in his hand. His hair's longer than Adam remembers.

"What happened to Gerard?" Adam mumbles, and he feels more than hears Frank's mirthless snort in response.

Ray crosses the room to hold the door open for Bob. Adam can hear that everyone is speaking: Bob firm and commanding, Fazzi high-pitched and scared, Eddie low and anxious, and Mark terrifyingly monotone. None of them are speaking loud enough for Adam to hear the actual words, though, until Bob appears in the doorway again. "All clean."

Gerard limps towards Matt, his mouth lined with determination. He squints down at Matt like Matt's some kind of rodent, some kind of pest that Gerard would love to simply dispose of, no questions asked. Mikey appears next to Adam and Frank quite suddenly, and Adam looks up at him for a second before looking back towards Gerard, who's pressing the cane against Matt's temple as if he's trying to crush him.

"How long?" Mikey asks. Adam gapes for a moment, and Frank pokes him in the ribs to prompt him. Mikey sighs, a little impatiently, Adam thinks. "How long has he been like this? When was he bitten?"

Gerard's still nudging Matt with his cane, poking at the bandaged wound on Matt's neck and prodding at his arm, still bound tight behind him. Adam can see the way the ropes holding Matt had started to fray. He looks up at Mikey again, licking his lips to wet his mouth.

"I don't... sometime around ten o'clock. In the morning. Yesterday."

Gerard makes a noise that Adam doesn't like much, a dismissive grunt, a disbelieving groan, something that Adam thinks doesn't bode well for Matt.

"Over twenty hours?" Mikey shakes his head, clicking his tongue. "Incubation is ten hours, almost exactly." He says this like he's attempting to soften the blow, and Adam shakes his head hard.

"He was still himself a fucking minute ago, I swear to god, I swear."

Gerard makes that same dismissive noise, moving his cane up, shifting it just so, putting the shaft between Matt's lips, between Matt's teeth. Adam watches Gerard's face, and he sees the look on Gerard's face shift, the shape of his eyebrow betraying subtle surprise. Adam glances back at Matt, his jaw still loose, his mouth not moving. Making no move to bite down on the intrusion to his mouth.

"Ray." Gerard's voice is cold, colder than Adam's ever heard it, and he's heard Gerard's voice take a lot of tones and timbres. Right now, it chills Adam to his bones. "Do it."

Adam's eyes go wide as Ray moves in to take Gerard's place beside Matt, Gerard moving away to stand nearer the Designated Smoking Area door, which was open and crowded with the other three, all staring wide-eyed at the commotion. Adam starts struggling again, sure, sure that after all that, all the fighting, they're going to take Matty away from him, right now. Frank catches Adam's arms and holds him still with a strength Adam didn't know he had. Adam can feel Frank's breath near his ear, and he hears Frank whisper a soft 'shhh'.

Ray leans down, righting the chair Matt's tied to. Matt slumps against his bonds, his head lolling on his shoulder. His eyes are open, if just barely. Adam can see that they've gone almost entirely black. He shakes his head when Ray tosses his bag down on the table beside them, pulling out a small black and shining silver case. "No, Ray, don't."

Frank shushes him again and in any other situation Adam would be embarrassed by the honest to god whine that comes out of him then, a whine like a scared dog begging for attention and comfort. Ray flips the case open, and Adam can see small bottles and then Ray pulls a fucking syringe out of the case. He doesn't notice the way Gerard, unsurprisingly, turns away to look towards the wall.

Ray holds one of the little bottles up towards the light, then slips the needle in, filling the syringe with all the practice of a professional. Adam whines again. "What are you doing, _what are you doing_?" Frank doesn't even bother shushing him this time as Ray reaches to grab Matt by the chin, tilting his head the other way, running his hand over Matt's neck, eyes focused. "There it is." He mumbles, mostly to himself. Adam flinches when he slips the needle into Matt's neck, presses down on the plunger in what seems to Adam to be a lot faster than he's ever seen any syringe go.

Adam's sobbing quite suddenly, especially when Matt doesn't move, doesn't respond at all. Ray removes the needle carefully, returning the syringe to his little case. He tilts Matt's head back again, peels the bandage away to examine the wound. "Ugh, that's gonna scar." Ray slips a hand into Matt's hair, stroking his fingers through the strands. This strikes a chord in Adam, it's a sweet gesture. Surely not how one would treat a zombie.

Bob nods in agreement, even from across the room. Adam stares at them all through his tears. "What's going on?"

"I don't know about this." Mikey's voice is as stoic as it ever had been. "Twenty, plus, hours?"

"What's happening, what did you do?" Mark has joined in on the questioning, his voice louder, demanding an answer. Mikey turns to look at him.

"It's an antidote, but we've never done it this far out from infection. Might be it just keeps him from reanimating."

"Antidote? Like a cure, like he's gonna be okay?" Fazzi's voice is still high-pitched, he sounds about fifteen, and he looks like he feels that way too, eyes wide as they are.

Mikey shakes his head. Ray's pulling a chair up closer to Matt, right up behind him, still running a hand through his hair. Adam realizes, when Ray moves his other hand to touch Matt's cheek, that maybe he's feeling for a change in Matt's body temperature. He'd been so cold...

"I wouldn't really call it a cure. It's not a vaccination. It'll stop the infection, but it won't keep you from getting it again."

"Stop the infection, though, stop the infection meaning keep him from turning into a zombie, right?" Eddie finally chimes in.

Gerard clears his throat. "That's the general idea." His voice is still cold, and Adam hates it. "But Mikey already said it, the incubation takes ten hours. We've seen it happen, ten hours is it. After reanimation, there's no cure, no antidote. Just destruction."

Adam shakes his head again. "He was still himself when you guys got here. He was still trying to talk, he was, he-" Adam chokes on his next words and it takes him a second to compose himself. "He asked me to kill him, 'cause he didn't want to hurt us."

"Really?" Gerard looks at Matt's motionless body, there's a bitterness running through the ice of his voice now. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket of the military style jacket that Adam recognized as a piece of stage gear. He lights one with a Zippo.

"He said the same to me." Mark says, groping around in his pockets for a cigarette of his own. "Just a couple hours ago, a lot longer than ten hours. What, what would ten hours have been?" He squints, trying to do the math in his head.

"Eight. Eight last night." Eddie supplies. Mark nods, pointing at Eddie and dragging off his cigarette. Fazzi reaches out to take the cigarette from him.

"We were still on the road at eight. He was still running with us, still completely himself then."

"Matt's a strong guy, he's a little fighter." Bob says this with a note of admiration, glancing around at the others from his post by the door. "Is it inconceivable that he'd fight to protect his friends?"

"A little." Gerard scoffs, still with that bit of bitterness. Adam doesn't understand why Gerard seems like he almost wishes Matt were a zombie. Matt, if what Mikey had said was true, could just be a real corpse now. Dead, and gone, and never coming back. And it sounds like this disappoints Gerard somehow. It makes Adam angry. Gerard and Matt had been so close, once.

"Fight _this_? This venom or poison or whatever it is?" Mikey shakes his head. "It's unlikely, but, it _is_ possible. Some people are incredible survivors."

They fall silent for a while, as if they're waiting for something.

"You guys were in California." Eddie says suddenly. "How'd you get here?"

Bob laughs, and it's a real laugh, with genuine mirth. How anyone can be amused in this situation is amazing to Adam, but he kind of appreciates the sound of Bob's laugh. "Great perseverance."

Suddenly, quite suddenly, suddenly enough to nearly scare Adam out of his skin, Matt gasps, sitting up and struggling violently against his bonds. He lifts his head, gasping again and going limp once more in an frightening coughing fit. Adam's heart leaps; for a split second, Matt's eyes had been wide, open, and incredibly, startlingly blue.

"Matty!" Adam and Mark say this in tandem, and Mark is already moving, before Adam can break out of Frank's grip. Frank lets him go and Adam struggles to his feet and stumbles towards Matt. After just a moment, Eddie and Fazzi are there too. Mark crouches down at Matt's side, pressing his face to Matt's chest. Fazzi falls to his knees behind Matt, struggling with Mark's knots, they had gone tighter than Fazzi could get his fingers into thanks to Matt's struggling.

Ray produces a small pocket knife, but he relents, handing it to Fazzi and letting Fazzi hack the ropes apart where they'd started to fray. Matt's arms go limp for a minute and then he lifts them, spreads them as if on reflex. Adam and Mark together haul Matt to his feet and Eddie removes the chair from the center of their tangled group hug.

They just stay there for a long moment, holding Matt, each quietly coaching him to breathe slowly, to be careful, congratulating him and apologizing and thanking him. Eventually the tight knot unravels and Matt's left standing on his own two feet, staring down at the floor like he can't believe that he's upright. He looks up, his eyes bloodshot and tears rolling down his cheeks. "Shit, oh shit," he's whimpering in amazement. He looks around the room, confused and a little frightened. He stares at Gerard for a moment, then turns to look at Mikey, and Bob and Ray standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Frank, retrieving a fucking _katana_ from a far corner of the room. "What..."

"You're okay, Matty," Adam puts his arms around Matt again, unable to let go of him for long. "You fought and you fucking won!" He whispers in Matt's ear.

"James is gonna want to know all of this." Mikey points out. Adam looks around at him.

"Dewees?"

"Who else? He's kind of a genius. Like, a real deal genius. He invented the antidote." Mikey smiles, and Adam smiles back at him, a genuine smile of relief. He wasn't sure what the precise opposite of loneliness was, but he was feeling it right now. When it had been just the five of them, it felt like they were alone in the world, running but only delaying the inevitable. Now, now he felt like they had a fighting chance.

"We should go." Bob says, gesturing towards the door. Mark turned to look at him, then looked at Gerard. He was kind of the pack leader again, at least for just a moment. The Taking Back Sunday pack, anyway. But it was obvious who the leader of the My Chemical Romance pack was.

"Where are we going?" He asks, directing the question towards Gerard.

Gerard pulls out his cigarettes again, lighting another. "Into the city."


	2. Bury Me in Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Just a few days since Frank had come in screaming, just like Mikey is now, screaming about the end of the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all [borrowedphrases](http://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases).

  
"I wanna see what you're insides look like.  
I bet you're not fuckin' pretty on the inside.  
I wanna see what you're insides look like.  
I wanna see 'em."  
\- Bury Me In Black,  
My Chemical Romance

 

The trip from Gerard and Lindsey's house to the studio has never felt longer. Mikey hasn't walked it before, of course, hasn't really had the need to. He's driven it or taken a cab, and while Los Angeles traffic is a nightmare, it still hadn't felt like this eternity. This agonizing forever, avoiding dark alleyways, keeping an eye out for any suspicious movements from anything alive or otherwise. His brother is a panic inducing dead weight against his side and over his shoulders. He is still breathing, thick shallow breaths brushing against Mikey's ear at a rate so slow it makes him want to hold his own just so he would catch it whenever it happened. Hold onto the feel of it like a precious gift. Gerard is still warm and still bleeding freely, slick and hot against Mikey's neck. These are good signs, Mikey keeps reminding himself, if just to keep himself moving. These are signs that he wasn't dead, signs that he wasn't one of _them_ yet. That he hasn't changed.

"Don't you fucking give up on me, G. Swear to god I'll follow you. I'll kick your ass in hell if you die on me." Mikey can barely see to get his key in the lock, trying to juggle Gerard, his keychain, and the cane he's been holding this whole time all at once. His eyes are clouded with guilt and regret and terror, his fingers shaking so hard he drops the keys twice before he finally gets the door open, slamming it behind him and tumbling into the large entrance room of the studio.

The room is a cluttered mess of junk, everything they could find to tear apart and turn into weapons or bedding or food. The skeletal remains of guitars, swivel chairs stripped of their leather, a couch robbed of all its cushions, take out boxes from that first night, picked clean of every last crumb. Had it really only been a few days? Just a few days since Frank had come in screaming, just like Mikey is now, screaming about the end of the world.

Mikey trips and stumbles, smashing his knee into a wreck of a keyboard. Instead of crying out in pain he screams in desperation, near hysterical as he shifts his brother from his back to his lap, not looking down as Gerard's head rolls on his thigh. Dead weight. "Fuck, James, Bob! Someone get out here and help me. Gerard, he... someone help!"

"Oh shit." It's not James or Bob that gets to him first, but Ray's voice is just as welcome to Mikey's ears. The look on Ray's face makes Mikey's stomach drop to his knees, makes his heart jump up to lodge itself in his throat. Choking, suffocating. His mouth works, but he can't get his voice to follow, lips moving dumbly as he fights to explain. Ray looks horrified, disgusted, like he might throw up. And he also looks scared. Mikey needs his help to carry Gerard any further, but Ray just stands there, looking like he wants to turn around and run.

"Ray, please..." Mikey finally manages, his voice ragged and weak. He can't really see Ray much at all, and he wonders if he's been crying this whole time. If that's why is vision is blurring up like he just got out of a pool.

"The fuck is going on?" James shoves Ray out of the doorway, and Mikey watches as his features shift gradually, like everything is in slow motion, first gagging at the sight of him and Gerard before glaring at them. Mikey's never seen James look so pissed before, and he's shocked when James grabs Ray's knife from his pocket, striding purposefully across the room, his eyes fixed on Gerard.

"No!" Mikey draws his brother's head close against his chest, ignoring the gore that still covers his features and bowing over him, protecting his neck. "No, James, no. Please. It's _Gerard_. You said... you said you had a cure! You said you could fix this! Fix him James, please," Mikey gasps, shaking all over, his voice a shrieking plea for mercy. "Just fix him."

"It's not a sure thing, you idiot! I don't know if it even works yet." James stops a few steps in front of the brothers, and Mikey can feel the anger radiating off him. "You might've damned us all by bringing him back here, I should kill you both just in case you got bit, too. Did it get you too, Mikey? Are you and your dumbshit brother about to turn into fucking zombies and bring the rest of us down with you?"

"James..." Ray's voice, soft and disarming, is the last thing Mikey hears clearly before the panic gets to him, clogging his throat like a clot. He chokes and gasps and coughs and he's shaking so hard, he's probably hurting Gerard. If Gerard's even still alive. He has to be alive, he just has to be. Ray is still talking to James, Mikey can hear the tone of his voice even if he can't make out the words, and he's pretty sure it's not working because he still sees the shadow of the knife in James's hand on the floor.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

Mikey's head snaps up at the new voice, trying to figure out who it is through the fog in his head and the film of tears over his eyes. Bob's standing in the entrance to the studio, a fireman's axe held steadily in one fist. Frank is peering in around him, something clutched in his hands that Mikey can't identify. He looks terrified, which is better than angry, better than disgusted. Mikey chances a look at Bob's face and sees nothing but quiet, steady authority there. The Bob that told them all he didn't need to go to the hospital when his leg was falling off, the Bob that told them there was still life for them after _The Black Parade_. Mikey watches as Bob's eyes scan the room, watches as he takes in the scene and assesses the situation.

"Give Ray back his knife, Dewees," Bob gestures at James with the head of his axe, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And go get the antidote ready, we're testing it now. Ray," Ray's head snaps up from where he'd been staring at the brothers, meeting Bob's eyes across the room.

"Take Gerard and get him cleaned up, make sure he's comfortable and safe, put him in the sound booth. Get Mikey cleaned up too while you're at it. Frank," Bob grabs Frank by the back of his shirt and drags him inside, shutting the door to the outside and locking it before speaking again. "Frank I want you to help James get his shit together, then we're all going to meet in the live room and figure out what to do next."

It's hard for Mikey to let go of Gerard, for him to surrender his brother to Ray. All he can manage is a strangled, desperate sound in the back of his throat when Ray kneels down and reaches for Gerard. Ray draws his hand back and turns it palm up, dealing with Mikey like he would an abused dog. "Mikey, it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt him. I promise. We can stay right like this while I look at him if you need me to prove it to you. But I'll need to move him if I'm going to really help him."

Mikey takes in a shuddering breath, but sits up better so that he's not crouched protectively over Gerard anymore. He goes to rub at his eyes, but they're covered in blood. His brother's blood. He can't look away as Ray examines Gerard, first checking his pulse, brow furrowing and making Mikey's heart jump up into his throat again. "He's alive," Ray says quietly, meeting Mikey's eyes for a second before he looks down again. "Barely, but he's still with us for now."

Gerard's face is like something out of _Dead Alive_. The place where his left eye should be is nothing but torn flesh, chipped bone, and blood. The eye itself is a chewed mess of tissue, still hanging from the socket by a thread. You'd think with all the horror movies him and Ray had watched over the years it would have been easier to take in, but it was different when it was real. It was different when it was your brother and friend.

Ray sucks in a slow breath, staring down at Gerard's face for a moment or two longer before looking back up at Mikey. "Anywhere else?"

"He, h-he..." Mikey's voice fails him and he looks down at Gerard's legs, gesturing with a jut of his chin at his right calf.

"Jesus," Ray reaches to lift away the scraps of Gerard's jeans, reveling the full extent of the damage there. It's almost worse than his face, like his entire calf muscle had been shredded, like a wolf had gotten a hold of him and gnawed away to its heart's content. Ray pulls the denim up a bit higher, wanting to see how far the damage extends. "I'm not an expert, but I'm pretty sure a kneecap isn't supposed to look like that. What happened? Is Lindsey..."

Ray's words are cut off by another strangled sound from Mikey, his breathing picking up again, frantic and shallow. Ray hushes him gently, moving his unbloodied hand into Mikey's hair, his fingertips gliding through. "It's okay. You don't have to answer that. Will you help me carry him?"

Mikey doesn't want Ray's fingers to stop, he wants to curl up in a ball and sob while Ray's hand keeps soothing. He wants to die, give up right now and call game over, but instead he nods, taking a few shaky but deep breaths and managing to get to his feet. They lift Gerard up between them, one arm each over their shoulders. "You have to forgive James, he's just worried about everyone."

"It's not fucking ready yet, Mr. Wannabe Thor." James is yelling when Mikey staggers into the live room with Ray and Gerard. Him and Bob are standing face to face, practically pressed chest to chest, both trying to intimidate the other into backing down. "I'm a fucking mathematician, not a goddamned chemist. For all I know it might just turn whatever the infection is into a super disease, fucking _Resident Evil_ , _28 Days Later_ shit. You want that on your fucking conscience, Bryar? Not that you'll have one after super zombie Gerard eats your fucking head off."

"It's better than doing nothing," Bob's voice is much quieter than James's, though it's just as intimidating, almost moreso with how calm he is, staring down James like Bob is some ancient god, knowing he could crush James with nothing but his fist. "Would you rather cut his head off without even trying? This morning you wouldn't shut up about how you'd figured it out, found the cure. All you needed were supplies. Well, you and Ray _found_ all your supplies, so you better start cooking up that antidote before I throw you out in the street with the real danger."

"What if it does work?" James's hands clench into fists at his side, and he leans a little closer to Bob, eyes narrowing. "He's probably going to die of his injuries before it even has a chance to work, and then what? We'll have wasted everything we collected today and we won't even know if it really works. It's too much of a risk to keep him here."

Mikey's legs buckle suddenly, the room swirling as he falls, leaving Gerard in Ray's arms. He grips at the cane with both hands now, clinging to it like it will save the day again. Everything is thick and heavy and slow. This isn't real. This is a very bad dream, and he's going to wake up next to Alicia with Piglet licking at their faces, demanding to be pet and fed. He's going to wake up and his brother is going to be fine, and the walking dead aren't going to be banging at the front door.

" _Enough_." There's a great crash as Frank flings a chair at the nearest wall, effectively breaking it and drawing all eyes to him. He glares at the room then gets in between Bob and James, shoving them apart and spitting on the floor before he moves to Mikey. "Arguing is just wasting time, if we're going to do anything we have to do it fast."

Frank pries the cane from Mikey hands, setting it aside before he wraps his arms around Mikey, helping him to his feet. "James, just make the fucking anti-zombie juice, now is as good a time as any to test it. Bob, hand me the first aid kit and then help James while I help Ray get these guys cleaned up. And _try_ not to kill each other, okay? And don't touch my fucking katana."

Mikey leans heavily against Frank as they close themselves off in the sound booth, his breathing hasn't really recovered, and he's so grateful when Frank sits them down on a sleeping bag where he can lean against the wall and still watch Ray as he cleans up Gerard's injuries. They'd been using the sound booth as a makeshift bedroom the past couple of nights, the extra walls and locks making it the natural choice for safer sleeping. Sleeping bags, blankets, pillows and the pirated couch cushions covered the floor. They had been nesting up together, leaving at least one person awake to keep watch over the others as they slept. Not that they'd been getting much rest, just passing out from exhaustion mostly.

"Easy Mikey," Frank voice is soft as he rubs Mikey's back, both working to ease Mikey's breathing and calm the frantic beating of his heart. "No one's going to hurt Gerard, we're going to do everything we can to save him."

Frank helps Mikey out of his blood soaked hoodie, raising a curious eyebrow when he finds a loaded gun in one of the front pockets, a handful of extra bullets in the other one. He leave his questions for later, wiping the blood from Mikey's hands and cheeks and then reaching for a blanket. He wraps it around Mikey's shoulders, trying to get him to stop shaking. He wonders if maybe Mikey's in shock or something, not that he had a fucking clue what a person in shock looked or acted like, but wondering about these things makes him feel more useful. He can't work math equations and figure out a cure like James can, he can't wield an axe - or any weapon, really - with the skill and accuracy that Bob can, he can't even clean and bandage wounds with the natural skill Ray seems to possess, and he's certainly not a born leader like Gerard is. Was? Is. He's kind of useless really, he can try and be a good friend to Mikey right now, but he knows he's even failed at that in the past. That was before the zombies, but still, it hurts to think about all the fights him and Gerard have had, especially now that Gerard is lying still as death just a few feet away from him.

"Do you want to talk about what happened? Where's Lindsey?" Frank can tell by the way Mikey cringes that he doesn't, and he hushes him softly, tugging him a bit closer so that he can rest his head on Frank's shoulder. "It's okay, you don't have to say anything."

Once Ray has Gerard laid out in a comfortable position, he cleans his hands on a discarded T-shirt, then digs around in the enormous first aid kit that Frank's never seen before, probably something he grabbed earlier in the day. He fishes out a small bottle and shakes a couple pills into his palm, then grabs a bottle of water from inside his own sleeping bag, kneeling down in front of Mikey and holding the pills out to him. "Take these, they'll make you feel better."

Frank raises an eyebrow, but doesn't question Ray, trusting him enough to not give Mikey anything dangerous. He manages a smile when Ray pats Mikey's head after, leaving him with the bottle of water as he returns to Gerard.

Gerard. He looks like every movie they've ever watched together. Every movie the five, sometimes six, of them have put on in the bus, the lights off, passing a bowl of popcorn between them. This all feels like a movie, Gerard is the first victim that's going to kill them all. Frank knows that it's all wrong, it should have been him that was the first victim. The shitty character that wandered into the zombies, not knowing what they were, and got bitten and didn't tell anyone, that spread the disease through the group until only one or two were left standing in the wreckage of their old lives.

 

Frank was walking to the studio from the apartment he'd been sharing with Mikey and Alicia while they were recording, his phone pressed against his ear, completely lost to his conversation with his wife. He missed her like crazy, but she'd stayed in Jersey to take care of their dogs. He missed them too, their big canine family, but he was also glad to be recording again, glad to be working with his best friends in his favorite band again.

"Yeah, it's not that far a walk if you know what short cuts to take." Frank glanced down the street before completely ingoing the blinking do not cross sign and stepping right out into the street. A disgruntled driver laid on his horn, and Frank didn't even look up from the lines of the crosswalk as he flipped the guy off.

"Don't worry, 'Mia." Frank laughed, stepping onto the sidewalk and heading for the last alley on his route to the studio. This one had a nice chain link fence at the end of it, and climbing it everyday reminded him of when he was younger, nimbler, and stupider. "It's pussy ass LA, I'm not going to find anything in a back alley that's worse than what I'd find in Jersey."

"I love you too. I'll call you tonight after we're done. Give kisses to Sinatra for me." Frank flipped his phone closed and tucked it in his back pocket, ducking down the alley. Once he was out of sight from the main street he paused to lean against the nearest clean patch of wall, glancing around to make sure he was alone before he reached into the breast pocket of his denim jacket. He fished out a joint he'd rolled that morning, smirking to himself as he retrieved his lighter. In a few seconds he was drawing smoke deep into his lungs, trying not to giggle or cough as he held it.

Every time he toked he remembered when he used to smoke with Gerard, back when it wasn't a problem, when it was just a couple of friends unwinding. They used to take bets on who could hold their first hit the longest. Gerard usually won; the guy had a set of lungs that wouldn't quit, even after years of chain smoking and screaming and other assorted types of abuse. Frank still held little competitions with himself, with memory Gerard in his head, and out of respect he always let the memory win.

A slow exhale, another hit, and then he started down the alley again, joint hanging between his lips for a few more little tokes as he neared the chain link fence. He was about to put the joint out on the bottom of his shoe, save the rest for later, when a loud clatter echoed down the alleyway behind him, like something out of a shitty cop flick, the distinct clang and clatter of a metal trashcan banging against pavement. It almost sounded fake when you'd heard it so many times in movies.

Frank turned around, eyebrow raised. His shoulders were slouched and relaxed, but his stance was defensive, years of being shoved into trashcans in high school playing with his instincts. It was probably nothing, a stray dog or cat - maybe even a homeless guy - looking for breakfast. Probably nothing at all, but his curiosity was gnawing at him, and he had to know for sure before he scaled the fence behind him.

A shaky dog staggered out from behind a couple trashcans, following after the toppled can. Frank had about enough time to sigh in relief, draw in a breath to laugh at himself, before the dog slumped forward, falling like a doll on the concrete. The joint tumbled from Frank's lips, hitting the ground with a little shower of sparks, skittering. The dog's stomach was torn open, jagged and rough, its guts spilling out like gore spaghetti, one long bit of intestine trailing behind it.

Frank's stomach churned. Sure, he'd seen a lot of fucked up shit in movies, but this was real life, and this was a _dog_. A poor dog that hadn't done anything wrong. What the fuck would do that to a dog? It's not like there were wolverines or cougars in Los Angeles, and the wound in the poor thing's stomach wasn't clean enough to suggest it had been made by a knife.

"Shit." Frank was debating going over to see if the dog was still struggling with life, maybe ease its suffering, when something else moved out from behind the remaining trashcans, something much bigger than a dog. A chill ran down his spine when he realized it was a person, and that its movements were really fucking weird.

And it had the other end of the dog's intestines hanging out of its mouth.

Frank's legs wouldn't move. It wasn't real; it couldn't be real. There's was no way a human being could cause that kind of damage to a dog with just its teeth, and gathering from the person's appearance, it was a very small woman, even more reason for what he was seeing to be completely untrue. Not happening, it just wasn't happening.

She was coming toward him, dragging the dog's guts behind, and after a few steps Frank recognized her, gagging as a renewed wave of revulsion and terror swept through him. "Oh _fuck_ , Christa... what..."

She looked up at him, like she recognized her name, like she still knew who she was. But her head lolled like it was barely connected to her shoulders, and through strands of blood sticky hair and strips of gore Frank could see her eyes. Black and vacant. Dead, but so much more than dead. They weren't human anymore, lifeless but also predatory. She looked at him and her mouth moved, gnawing through the intestine still hanging from her mouth until her teeth cut right through, the remainder falling to coil over her foot, her mouth working to chew the chunk left between her teeth.

Frank screamed, he screamed, and he turned, and he scrambled up the fence so frantically that his hands and arms were dripping blood by the time he made it over. He didn't think about the dirt and grit that got in the cuts as he toppled forward onto the gravel, just focused on revisiting his breakfast. He wasn't even finished puking before he was off at a run, coughing and spitting as he raced to the studio, hearing footsteps a few paces behind him, feeling claws tearing at his ankles. There was no way she was so close behind him, not with a fence slowing her down, but he couldn't stop his imagination, that five year old lost alone in the woods pins and needles down your spine all consuming terror.

Frank reached the studio and flung himself against the door, forgetting all about his key and instead pounding on the door with balled fists, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to split his knuckles. He was still screaming, shouting frantically for the guys to open the fucking door, to let him in and save him from the fucking demon that was right behind him, had to be right behind him. Please please please let him in let him in let him in. In his mind he was praying frantically, praying like he hadn't in years. That the guys would hear him and let him in before his voice gave out or he was ripped open just like that poor dog had been.

The door finally opened and Frank tumbled inside, falling into Brendan and grabbing for his arms, his shirt, anything he can hold onto to keep himself from falling over completely. He needed to keep standing, keep standing so he could keep moving, warn the guys and tell them to stay off the fucking street, stay away from that alley, fuck, stay indoors for the rest of fucking forever if they had to. Their producer managed to keep Frank on his feet, despite the fact that Frank was bleeding and hysterical, and Frank made a promise to himself that he would to buy him a fucking mansion if they stayed alive long enough.

"What's going on?"

Gerard was standing in the doorway separating the live room from the over-sized foyer, and Frank forgot all about using Brendan to keep himself up and instead flung himself at Gerard, grabbing the front of his jacket and yanking so hard Gerard iwas forced to lean forward. "G, G you have to, we... Christa, s-she..."

"Frank," Gerard's voice was demanding, and his eyes were filled with panic. He gripped Frank's wrists with his hands, trying to get him to let him go. "What the fuck happened? Did you get mugged or something?"

Frank wanted to cry and spit in Gerard face all at once. He was trying so hard to tell him that there was a fucking _zombie_ just down the _street_ and it was Ray's _wife_ and they were all going to die if they didn't do something _fast_ , but his words were failing him, and Gerard wouldn't shut up long enough for him to get anything out.

"Christa is a fucking zombie! She ate a dog and she was coming for me." Frank finally screamed, his fingers practically tearing holes in Gerard's jacket as he tugged, like if he tugged harder Gerard would listen and believe and _do_ something.

"Frank, what..."

"What about Christa?" Ray was in the doorway suddenly, leaning over Gerard and staring at Frank like he'd completely lost his mind. They didn't know, they hadn't seen and they didn't believe him, and he couldn't do anything to safely make them believe. He couldn't drag them out of the studio, down the street and show them the walking corpse that had lunged for him. "You have to believe me..."

Gerard was looking over him, and a second later Frank realized he was looking at Brandan. Frank didn't let go of Gerard's jacket, and he half turned, looking at Brandon with pleading eyes. "Go and see! Go and fucking see, but don't say I didn't warn you. She's going to fucking eat you if you go out there, just like she did to the fucking dog."

"Frank, calm down." Gerard was looking at Frank like he'd completely lost his mind, and his voice was filled with that patronizing tone that Frank frequently wanted to punch him in the teeth for. He was pretty close to doing that then, but instead he just let his jacket go and shoved him, if Ray hadn't been behind him he would have toppled. Frank was so mad, so pissed that Gerard didn't believe him. He was covered in blood and vomit and who knew what else but they all thought he was nuts and they were all going to die because of it.

"Frankie," Ray's voice was gentle, and Frank wanted to punch him, too. It wasn't the time to be gentle, it was time to get a fucking gun and lock the studio and start planning for the end of the fucking world. "Maybe it was just..."

"Guys, look at this." James's voice drew their attention to the television in the live room. On the screen was a helicopter view of the city, sweeping down streets, cars crashed into telephone poles and fire breaking through picture windows, and in the middle of the riot, in the middle of what looked no more harmless than a night when the Red Sox had won against the Yankees, were three teenagers tearing into an elderly man's chest, ripping out chunks of rib and lung and heart. They all watched in horror and one of the teens turned and looked right up at the camera, his eyes black and glazed, devoid of human intelligence but filled with a primal hunger.

Gerard grabbed at Frank's shoulder, gripping tight and swaying. Ray covered his mouth with one hand, turning away from the TV. Frank caught the glint of tears in his eyes before Ray moved to sit down slowly on the couch, resting his face in his hands. Bob had gotten his phone out at some point, and eventually Frank's hearing caught up with him enough to make out what he was saying.

"Watson," Bob's voice sounded demanding and desperate, a tone that made Frank's blood turn to sludge in his veins. "Watson don't leave your fucking house. No! Don't come over here. Lock the fucking door. Watson!"

They all heard the scream that crackled through the earpiece of Bob's phone. It was then that the last threads of Frank's resolve finally snapped. He made it to a corner before he crumbled, dissolving into hysterical, hiccuping sobs.

 

By the time Ray is finished cleaning Gerard's wounds, Mikey is asleep, curled into a ball with his head pressed against Frank's thigh. He almost looks peaceful, and Frank can't help running his fingers through his hair, trying to sooth him, will good dreams into Mikey head through his fingertips. "I can't believe he managed to fall asleep."

"Sleeping pills. He should be out for an hour or two at least. I figured he could use it." Ray glances at Frank as he tears a long strip of gauze to cover the mess that was once Gerard's eye. The gore is gone from Gerard's cheeks, the thick blood, the tattered bit of eye that was still dangling there when Mikey brought him in. The wound looks horrible, and not in the traditional _that looks like it's gonna sting in the morning_ kind of way. The wound has a strange tint to it, different from the nasty green character Bob's leg developed after a week or two of stupidity. There was a grey tinge around the edges, faint, but if you stared long enough you could see it. It wasn't natural, and it was making Frank's blood feel like ice water.

"I haven't seen him that bad since the Paramour." Ray continues once the gauze is out of his teeth, and he starts covering the disturbing wound. Frank is amazed at Ray's talent for healing, it wasn't something he figured any of them would have when this whole thing started, but he'd proved he was a natural healer when he'd cleaned up Frank's hands and knees that first day. And he's only continued to prove his abilities as time goes on.

Once Gerard's head is wrapped and taped, Ray moves on to his leg, not even bothering to tear the gauze first, just guiding the roll around until almost his entire calf is covered in white. By the time he's tapping the bandage around Gerard's leg into place, the white over his eye is already starting to stain red. Ray sighs when he sees it, and Frank can't believe how weary and _old_ Ray looks. "At least he's bleeding, I'm guessing that a good sign. Means he's still alive, and since he hasn't woken up and tried to eat us yet, I'm guessing he also hasn't turned."

"Yeah," is all Frank can manage, his voice weak and tired. He doesn't think he could sleep even if Ray gave him some of the sleeping pills, but he feels exhausted, like he'll never have any energy again.

"Hey, um." Ray's not looking at Frank, or at Gerard. He's sort of playing with the roll of gauze, picking at the end of the fibers and staring at his own fingers. "You want to go check on James and see how the antidote is coming? Maybe make sure him and Bob haven't killed each other?"

"Yeah," Frank nods, making sure he doesn't kick Mikey in the head as he stands. His legs feel like they've turned to Jello, and not even the good name brand Jello. The crappy store brand gelatin dessert that only comes in two unexciting flavors. The least his legs could do for him is to turn to name brand Jello. "Yeah. That's probably a good idea."

Frank pretends he doesn't see Ray take a pill out of his breast pocket and pop it in his mouth like candy as he shuts the door.

James is hunched over the chemistry set he's crafted for himself out of drinking glasses and a zippo lighter, broken glass and some tubes he managed to find at the pharmacy him and Ray raided earlier in the day. It's really quite amazing what he's been able to do with scraps. The man is a genius, they'd always known that, but they never thought he was _this_ kind of genius.

James doesn't seem to notice Frank when he reenters the live room, but Bob does. Bob who is sitting on top of an equipment crate, sharpening his axe like a fucking war hero, like a Viking readying to raid and conquer Rome. "Is Mikey okay?"

Frank lets out a heavy sigh, pulling up a chair next to James and waiting to see if there's anything he can do to help. "Ray gave him something to help him sleep. He's gotten Gerard cleaned up and bandaged. He asked me to see how things were coming out here but," Frank chews his lip, looking down at his nails and picking at some of the last remnants of the nail polish he put on a week ago. "I don't really want to go back in there just yet."

Bob nods, giving the blade of his axe a glance over before setting it and his whetstone aside. Frank's not even sure where Bob got the axe, let alone the whetstone, he'd just showed up at Frank's elbow earlier while they were looking for weapons with them in his hands, and Frank had decided he didn't really need to know where it came from. It wasn't like he planned on telling the others where he'd found his katana, or how he knew how to use it. Some things just needed to go unexplained.

"I'm gonna go sit with Ray for a while."

Frank nods, and James gives Bob a passing brush of a wave over his shoulder as he goes.

Ray's sitting close to Mikey when Bob steps into the sound booth, shutting the door gently behind him so as not to wake Mikey. Bob silently notes that while Ray is close to Mikey, he's not touching him, which is odd for Ray, usually the first one to offer them any sort of physical comfort. Bob gives the brothers a passing glance before looking back at Ray, his eyes softening slightly. "You look like hell."

Ray laughs. That weak, disbelieving laugh than he used to give when they were told they had to be up at the ass-crack of the morning to catch a plane. It's a little different now, a little more desperate and a lot less controlled. It worries Bob. Everything worries Bob. His friends are breaking, cracking under the pressure of the end times, and he's trying so hard to hold them up and keep them together and help them stay strong. But now one of them is lying close to death a few feet away from his brother, his brother who's psyche hadn't exactly been as stable as it should have been even before the zombies rose up out of nowhere. He's surprised Mikey hasn't completely lost his mind yet, and he figures that if Gerard dies or changes that'll be it for Mikey's sanity.

Bob moves to kneel over Gerard, watching for the slight rise and fall of his chest. He checks his pulse, holding his fingers under his chin for a minute or two. It's slow; Bob's no doctor, but he's pretty sure it's much slower than it's supposed to be. He studies the bandage over Gerard's eyes, the blood still seeping into the gauze should be at least a little comforting, but it only makes him worry more. Even if Gerard lives he's not getting his eye back, he's going to have to adjust to the sudden loss of half his vision, and that's not an easy adjustment, especially with the state of the world right now.

Bob can't really gather anything from Gerard's face, the wrappings covering every last trace of the wound, so he moves on to study his leg. He notes the places where the blood is soaking through the heaviest, hoping he remembers to remind Ray to clean those spots extra thoroughly later. If there is a later. He follows the trail of bleeding up to Gerard's knee, where the gauze stops. The wounds are shallow here, deeper than passing scratches but not enough to continue bleeding like the gashes lower on his leg. His kneecap looks more than just dislocated; it looks completely fucked, in Bob's opinion.

Bob whistles softly and very carefully turns Gerard's leg, glancing up at his face to see if he might wake up from pain before looking back down, checking out the inner side of his knee. His brow furrows slightly as he notices something small and black lodged in Gerard's skin, something Bob figures Ray missed while he was focused on the free bleeding wounds. He reaches for the first aid kid and finds the gloves, tugging one on his right hand.

Ray lifts his head, peering at Bob with concern through his curls. "What is it?"

Bob makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, half a grunt and half a sigh, trying his best to be gentle as he pries the strange object from Gerard's skin. He stares at it for a moment, turning it to look at it from other angles.

"It's a fingernail," Bob turns it so he can get a good look at the top of the nail, wiping blood off it with his gloved thumb. He recognizes the nail polish, the black with tiny fleck of red in it, and he sighs, a wave of guilt hitting him hard. "It's Lindsey's."

"Damn it." Bob flicks the fingernail at the wall in complete disgust, ripping the glove off his hand so he can rub at his eyes. "I should have fucking known. I should have stopped her."

"How is it your fault?" Ray's voice sounds tiny, like he's been backed into a corner with no weapons, like he's been stripped naked and left to wander through the Arctic by himself. Bob looks at Ray, and it's even worse looking at him. His eyes are wide behind his hair, and Bob wants to either put his fist through the nearest wall, or move over and throw a strong arm around Ray's shoulders.

"Earlier today, when we were getting ready to leave," Bob pauses to clear his throat, looking back down at Gerard as he forces his throat to continue, needing to confess his stupidity. He hopes Ray won't judge him to harshly for his poor judgment. "Lindsey stumbled on her way through the live room. You guys were already in the foyer, it was me and her left. She stumbled and I caught her. She was so pale, but I figured she was just scared to be leaving the studio, what with all she went through to get here."

Bob reaches out and rests his hand over Gerard's chest, needing to feel him breathing for a moment, needing to know there's still a chance. "She grabbed my arm, her hands were so cold, but I didn't want to think that she... you know. That she was hiding anything from us. Fucking stupid. She looked up at me and she asked me to look after Gerard, to make sure he stayed safe, that nothing happened to him. I thought it was weird, since I was going off with Frank, not with her and G and Mikey, but I promised her I would. She made me promise to find Bandit and Alicia, too. I should have known she was infected, I shouldn't have let Gerard and Mikey go with her."

Bob's hand curls tight over Gerard's chest, gathering a fistful of his shirt and gripping tight. "I was so fucking stupid."

"Look," Ray's voice is suddenly louder, not quiet yelling, but that voice he uses when he's trying to make a point. Bob's used to it being aimed at Frank, the two of them bickering about chord progression and pedal work. Firm and certain. "It's not your fucking fault so stop thinking it is. If it's anyone's fault it's mine so just, j-just," Ray's voice cracks and he bows his head, hiding behind those damned curls again. "If it's anyone's fault it's mine."

 

Ray was sitting on the floor in the live room, his legs tucked up beneath him, the last of the first aid supplies he'd managed to scrounge up from the studio spread out around him. There were a handful of Band-Aids, mostly the tiny kind that were only good for razor cuts, an almost empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, saline eye drops, and a very small roll of medical tape. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "I am going to need way more supplies soon, especially if we plan on going after the girls."

James gave a soft grunt, dragging on his cigarette and blowing a long stream of smoke out his nose after. "We should do a pharmacy run, I need a few more things if I'm going to make this work."

"Wait," Ray's head snapped up, staring at the back of James's head like he could read his mind if he looked at him hard enough. "Did you figure something out? I thought you said it would be too hard to isolate the virus with the equipment you had."

"It's not a virus," James turned in his chair, ashing on the floor even though there was a perfectly good empty soda can sitting on the table next to him. "It's not really an infection either, honestly it looks like it works more like a venom, like being bitten by a snake or a fuckin' spider or somethin'."

James was talking around his cigarette, something Ray used to find endearing, both in him and in Gerard, but right then all he wanted was for James to speak clearly, since he seemed to be the only one who had any idea what was going on, and what they could do to fix it. Ray nodded as he went back to sorting through his sparse medical supplies, tucking them away neatly back into the little case that used to hold a guitar tuner.

"It has to spread through blood. I wish I had a better microscope than this shit thing we found at the toyshop, but it doesn't seem to do anything in saliva, or sweat, or cum." James grabbed the can off the table, ashing into it before taking a last drag and then dropping the spent filter into the can. "Don't, um," James scratched at the back of his neck, then at the healthy growth of beard he'd accumulated over the past few days. "Don't get your hopes up too high, but I think I may have found an anti-venom. Thanks for, well, you know. It might have saved our asses."

Ray didn't comment, he knew exactly what James was trying to be tactful about, and his careful words didn't make it hurt any less. James had needed a sample of a zombie to work with, and he'd ask to use Christa's remains after they put her to rest. Ray had agreed, but he didn't want to talk about it ever again. He never wanted to think about his wife with black dead eyes, the blood and gore dripping from her lips, or how they'd had to use one of his own guitars to bash her skull in before she finally stopped trying to eat them. Frank had done it. Ray hadn't even been able to watch.

"Anti-venom?" Gerard's groggy voice broke the heavy silence in the live room, distracting Ray from his thoughts. One of his hands was balled into a lose fist, rubbing at his eyes as if he'd slept a full eight hours, gotten a proper night's sleep. He hadn't slept; Ray knew he hadn't slept. Ray spent the last few nights watching his friends as they tried to rest in the nest they'd made for themselves in the sound booth. Gerard didn't sleep, and Ray understood why. His wife, his sister-in-law, and his daughter we trapped in an apartment building, and he hadn't heard from them since the cell phones stopped working the day before. Who could sleep with all that worry on their mind?

"Yeah," James lit another cigarette, and Ray wondered idly how long their supply would last with everyone chain-smoking to curb hunger and anxiety. James gestured in the general direction of the science fair on the table. "I think, anyway. I need more supplies though. Shit from a real pharmacy, not from the corner store. And I can't even guarantee it'll work, I'm not sure it's worth the risk of leaving the studio."

"I need supplies too." Ray zipped up his tiny first aid kit, sighing as he looked at the door to the foyer. "I don't want to be unprepared if anyone else gets hurt."

Frank wandered out of the sound booth then, a genuine yawn his only form of greeting. "You left the fuckin' door open, G. You guys talk too loud." He stretched, and it sounded like his entire back popped, one bone after another. "If we're going out we should get some food too, and better weapons. There's only so much damage you can do with drumsticks and guitars before everything breaks." Frank bit his lip, looking at Ray like he might shatter to pieces. Ray hated that look. "Sorry."

"Out of the way, jackass," Bob nudged Frank to one side as he left the sound booth, giving Ray's head a small pat as he crossed the room to the couch. "We should go in teams."

Gerard nodded, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing at them all, like he was sizing them up. It was strange, watching Gerard take a leadership role outside of music. Ray still thought of him as that shy artist kid that he met back when they were all young and awkward. "Right. James and Ray, you guys go raid CVS, it's only a block away so it shouldn't take you too long to get back. Frank, you go with Bob and find shit we can use for weapons, don't be gone too long, and don't wander too far. Mikey and I will go and look for food and clothes."

As if on cue the door to the foyer opened, Mikey peering in, his cell phone clutched tightly in one hand. He'd been wandering the studio all morning, trying to get a cell phone signal; the others all knew it was futile, but it was something to keep busy with, so they refrained from commenting. "There's, um, there's someone at the door."

"It's probably a fucking zombie, dumbshit."

Gerard shot Frank a look, and Ray braced himself from yet another argument. Another shouting match that would quickly veer off away from the start of the fight into cruel words and childish insults. He was never more grateful to have Mikey around than he was when Mikey quickly dissolve the situation a second later.

"Zombies don't knock."

The five of them filed out into the foyer, Frank with a guitar in his hands and Bob with a pair of drumsticks, the rest of them hovered at their elbows, creeping like kids going down into an unlit basement for the first time. No one spoke; they barely even breathed, listening to the distinct sound of knocking. It wasn't the thud of the walking dead throwing themselves at the door, or the frantic pounding of someone recently infected. It was fast, and a little rushed, but it was a normal, sane knock.

"Are we going to just stand here like a bunch of scared five year olds or are we going to open the fucking door?" Frank spoke up finally, earning himself a shove from Bob.

"Guys?" A muffled voice sounded just outside the door, painfully familiar. "Guys, please let me in."

Gerard was at the door before anyone could even think to stop him, yanking it open so hard it banged against the wall. Lindsey took a startled step back, but Gerard was faster, grabbing her and pulling her inside, letting one of the others shut the door as he wrapped his arms around her like he'd never let her go again. Ray's heart gave a painful lurch in his chest, and he looked away for a moment, trying to push away the bitter taste at the back of his throat.

"What are you doing here?" Gerard words were muffled by Lindsey's hair, but Ray could still hear the choke of barely contained tears in them. "Where's Bandit? And Alicia? What were you even _thinking_ coming all this way alone? Did something happen?"

"Everything's fine, they're both fine." Lindsey's voice wasn't any more clear than Gerard's, speaking into Gerard's shirt and clinging to him like they hadn't seen each other in years. No one could blame them, they all had loved ones they were separated from, and everyone was feeling the sharp stab of worry and loneliness. "I just, I just had to try and find you."

Lindsey moved to take a step back, presumably to look up at Gerard and make sure he was real. She didn't get that far though, putting all her weight on her left ankle. It buckled, her face giving away just how painful that simple act had been, wincing and paling. Her fingers turned as white as her face as she gripped tight to Gerard's arms.

"What wrong?" The relief in Gerard's eyes quickly turned to concern, and he pulled her close again like she might fall apart in his hands.

Lindsey shook her head, pushing off Gerard's chest so she could stand on her own. "It's nothing. I twisted my ankle getting here. I'll be fine."

"You should let me take a look at it." Ray spoke without even thinking on it, falling into his knew found role of the group's medic. Funny, really, considering he'd done a shitty job acting as one back when they'd filmed _Ghost of You_. Lindsey looked at him, chewing on her lip for a moment before nodding.

"I don't have much but I could probably wrap it for you with a torn up T shirt." Ray nodded, throwing himself into focusing on helping, trying to forget everything else going on. It had worked a couple times already, when Frank had first come crashing into the studio, his hands and arms bleeding, his words frantic and choked. Ray had focused on cleaning him up and getting the deepest of his scrapes covered; it had kept his mind of Christa, had kept him sane. "We've got some extra clothes in the sound booth. You can get some rest there too."

Gerard reached for Lindsey's hand, still looking at her like she might break. "I'll come with."

"No." Lindsey put a hand to Gerard's chest and shook her head. "I'm okay, really. Please stop looking at me like that."

Ray took her hand and helped her to the sound booth, shutting the door behind them, his first aid kit clutched so tight in his hand than his nails almost broke through the leather of the case. Lindsey sat down on one of the pillows, wincing and making the tiniest sound of discomfort and pain as she stretched her left leg out. Ray knelt down and reached to tug her pant leg up, but Lindsey stopped him with a firm grip on his wrist.

Ray stared at her dumbly for a moment, wiggling his fingers a bit. "I can't wrap your ankle if i can't get to it."

It looked like Lindsey was making the hardest decision of her life before she finally let go of Ray's wrist. He tugged her pant leg up and her sock down. What he found mad him curse sharply, drawing his hand back like he'd been stung. There was a huge chunk of skin missing from the back of Lindsey's ankle, cutting right down to the tendon and still bleeding. "You said you you'd tripped!"

Lindsey drew her leg back, bowing her head and hugging her thigh. "A dog bit me, I... I didn't want Gerard to worry."

"Bullshit," Ray grabbed her foot and yanked her leg away her from her chest. "A dog bite would leave a completely different pattern than this." Ray's voice was rising, taking on a high-pitched tone that was both terrified and furious. "This was done by human teeth. And it's gray all around the fucking edges. Why would you come here if you were infected? Did you want to take us all down with you?" He flinched at his own words, regretting them the moment they were out of his mouth. "I'm sorry. I just don't understand why you didn't say something when you came in."

Lindsey was silent for an annoyingly long moment, and Ray was about to say something before she finally spoke. "I wanted to see him again." Her voice was small, a glorified whisper, and Ray was struck by the fact that this is the first time he'd ever seen her vulnerable.

"It happened this morning. I left Bandit with Alicia and went out to see if anyone else in the building was still alive. I figured the damned zombies would have left by now, gone off looking for living prey." While Lindsey talked, Ray dug around in his first aid kit, if just for something to do with his hands. He set the bottle of rubbing alcohol down and looked for one of their shirts, cutting the cleanest one he could find into long, thin strips with his pocket knife.

"There was one stuck in the basement; I don't think they can climb stairs. I tried to get away but I wasn't fast enough. I... I panicked." She hissed as Ray dabbed at her wound with a balled up piece of cloth, saturated with the alcohol. "I came here because I needed to see Gerard before I fucking die and become one of them. If you could have seen Christa once more, would you have wanted her to stay a-away?" her voice broke again, and Ray forced himself to stay focused on what he's doing. He was going to start fucking crying if he looked up at her. "Please, please don't tell Gerard. Don't tell anyone."

"They need to know." He grabbed a baggie that used to hold Frank's weed off the floor, tucking the blood soaked fabric inside and rolling it up to hold onto and dispose of later. "I can't just wait until you start coming after us."

Lindsey reached for Ray's wrist again, this time simply squeezing to make sure he was listening. "Let me tell him."

Ray sighed, lifting Lindsey's foot up to rest it on his thigh while he wound the strips of fabric around her ankle, wishing he had gauze or something that would cover it better. "Fine," he fell quiet as he worked, wanting to focus. Once the wound was as well bandaged as he could manage with the supplies he had he helped her get her sock back on, and tugged her pant leg back down, resting his hand over the top of her foot and finally looking at her.

"James says he may have found an antidote, anti-venom, whatever." Ray held her gaze as he spoke so she would understand just how fragile the hope he offered her was. Her eyes didn't go wide, or light up, which he was glad for. She understood. "He's not really sure, and I don't know even how long it's going to take him to cook it up. We're supposed to do a supply run today. You need to know that the infection only takes about ten hours before you die and change, James figured that out running some tests with our blood and stuff."

"You guys are doing it." There was a tone to Lindsey's voice that Ray couldn't quite define perfectly, resigned, not really confident. Confident would be the last word he'd use for it. It was quiet, and a little sad, but there was a flicker of awe and almost hope in it.

Ray just nodded, standing and helping her to her feet.

 

Bob has his arm around Ray by the time he's finished his confession, giving his shoulder a tight squeeze. He hates these situations, when a band mate is feeling down and he can't think of anything to do or say to make them cheer up. There's not much to be cheery about right now, and Ray has more reason than any of them to feel like hell. Bob settles on just being there with him, letting him know he's not judging him.

The door opens and Mikey stirs, sucking in a sharp breath and sitting up like a gun had just gone off. He blinks rapidly, like he used to do when he still wore glasses, taking the room in like it's a blurry photograph. He barely spares any of them a second glance before he crawls over to his brother, gently lifting his head into his lap and brushing his hair out of his face. Bob tries not to take note of how the grey lines from Gerard's wound have spread beyond the edges of the gauze, thread like patterns reaching like claws down his cheek.

"Mikey, you really shouldn't be that close to him." James is standing just inside the door, a nearly spent cigarette pinched between his lips.

Frank glares up at him from where he hovers at his elbow. He's carrying a glass of something that looks like diluted blood, and just that thought makes Bob shudder. Frank touches James's elbow, giving him a look that says more than his mouth usually does, and steps past him to hand the glass to Ray. "I'm really fucking hoping you grabbed some syringes from the pharmacy."

Bob watches the brothers while Ray stands and starts discussing the specifics with James, stuff Bob really doesn't want to know about and probably wouldn't remember anyway. How much James thinks the dose should be, where to give the shot and how, that sort of thing. Bob's more interested in watching Mikey to make sure he's okay, both physically and mentally. Mikey had never really answered when he'd been asked if he'd been bitten, too. Maybe he was infected. Maybe he was dying just as quickly as Gerard. Bob imagines that's how Mikey would want it anyway, go out like a pair of lovebirds. One right after the other. He's not even sure if that's really true with lovebirds, the whole if one dies the other goes, but he knows it would probably be true for Mikey and Gerard.

"...it'll happen right away if it works." Bob's ears catch the end of the conversation James and Ray are having. Frank's gone again, Bob wonders if maybe he should follow after him. He's not scared of needles like Gerard is, but he's still not sure he wants to stick around while Ray plays at being a doctor. He decides to stay where he is, figuring Ray probably needs all the moral support he can get.

Ray kneels down next to Gerard and gives Mikey a small smile that Mikey can't quite return. As he fills the syringe Mikey reaches down for his brother's hand, threading their fingers and rubbing at his wrist with his thumb. It's such a fluid movement that Bob wonders if he does this every time Gerard needs a shot, or has to get blood drawn. Gerard won't feel this one, isn't awake to get scared. Bob figures Mikey needs the familiar comfort a whole lot more than Gerard does right now.

Ray takes in several long slow breaths and gently shifts Gerard so he's more or less sitting up, his head resting back against Mikey's chest rather than in his lap. He tilts Gerard's head to the side, hovering for a moment before rethinking his actions. Somehow he manages to tear open an alcohol swab packet, then makes quick work of cleaning a spot on Gerard's neck.

"Don't hit the artery," James slurs, his voice thick with smoke and exhaustion. He sounds a lot less irritated than he has in days, and Bob even hears a note of genuine concern in his words.

Ray shoots him a weary look. "That would be a whole lot easier if I didn't have to inject into his jugular."

Bob watches Mikey's face as Ray jabs the needle into Gerard's throat, watches as he winces on his brother's behalf. Bob knows he's slept, he's been sitting next to him for at least an hour while he was sleeping. You wouldn't know that to look at him though, his complexion as white as Gerard's. At least Gerard has the excuse of blood loss. There are deep purple crescents under Mikey's eyes, dark enough that Bob would have sworn it was makeup if he didn't know better.

Bob hears Ray breathe out a small sigh, and he looks down in time to see Ray carefully drawing the syringe out and staring down at the needle like it might bite him. He covers the bead of growing blood on Gerard's neck with a Band-Aid, then wraps the syringe in a heavy amount of gauze, setting it aside and out of the way. Bob figures it's not worth it to find a sharps container for the thing, no one's going to bitch anymore if they dispose of it incorrectly.

"Come on, Gerard," it's Mikey who speaks first, easing Gerard's head back down into his lap. His hand in his hair, fingers gliding, untangling knots when they catch or snag. It feels like everyone in the room is holding their breath, like the universe itself is holding its breath, hoping, begging and praying that James's cure works. "How will we know?" Mikey looks up at James, and Bob can't even comprehend the fear he sees in there, wide and timid like a startled mouse, bloodshot, the lids still puffy from crying earlier.

James looks at Ray, and before he even has to say anything Ray begins checking Gerard. He checks his pulse, first at his wrist, then at his throat, his face giving nothing of what he's thinking away. He turns Gerard's head so he can look at his cheek, lifting the gauze slightly. He does the same with the bandages on his leg, being especially gentle near his knee. Finally he lifts Gerard's eyelid, checking the color. "From what I can tell the infection is receding, the grey lines on his cheek and leg are fading pretty rapidly. But his eye is still way darker than it should be."

The sound that comes from Mikey makes them all jump. It's a sound a human being should never make. Like a cat that's just had its tail stepped on, or a bird with a broken wing, screaming because she can't get back to the chicks in her nest. The sound is brief but the chill in the room lingers, thick and sterile like the air in a hospital, the words he speaks when he regains his breath again echoing painfully.

"He's fighting it."

 

Gerard and Lindsey's house felt like a tomb to Mikey, a testament to the life they used to have. Posters and gold records on the walls, their comic collection, their vast catalogue of horror movies and art films. The art desks and the computers, Lindsey's bass and Gerard's old guitar. Even the canes Gerard had used for a time after Frank had tackled him harder than he'd meant to. Everything was left in its place, now to forever collect dust until it disintegrated and joined the pile. There was a pot of burnt coffee stinking in the kitchen, the remains of Lindsey's breakfast still on the table, collecting flies. The television in the living room was still on, showing nothing but static. She'd picked up and left with Bandit the minute she had seen the same horrifying news report they had, fled to the apartment Mikey, Frank, and Alicia had been sharing. She'd understood that there was a better chance of survival in a group than alone.

Gerard hadn't let go of Lindsey's hand the entire trek here from the studio, his other occupied with a broken off guitar neck. Mikey couldn't blame him, if Alicia were here he would probably have done the same. He missed her like a lost limb, worried about her constantly, especially now that she was all alone with Bandit. He was trying not be upset that Lindsey had just up and left them, but it was a little hard.

"Okay," Gerard stopped just inside the living room, finally letting go of Lindsey's hand. "I guess we'll go upstairs and get whatever clothes we can carry, and some shit from the medicine cabinet, maybe an extra blanket. Mikey, you wanna grab whatever nonperishables you can find in the kitchen? There might be some stuff in the basement too. Oh," Gerard paused, like he was debating something within himself. "Dad's old handgun is in a lockbox in the basement, the key is under the mat just at the bottom of the stairs. Grab it, and the bullets too."

Mikey nodded, waiting until Gerard and Lindsey were heading upstairs before he headed into the kitchen.

There wasn't much in the kitchen that hadn't gone bad, Gerard and Lindsey had a fondness for keeping fresh food in the house rather than box meals and microwave dinners. There were a few cans of soup, a can of mixed nuts, a bag of jerky, and a can of evaporated milk. He threw all that in an old Walmart bag and left the kitchen for the basement.

The only basement Mikey ever enjoyed going down into was at their parents' old house, during the many years that Gerard made his home there. That basement was warm and inviting, filled with art supplies and comic books, overflowing ashtrays and well loved action figures. That basement had been an exception, as a general rule basements were creepy, filled with boxes of stuff nobody really wanted and cobwebs and mold. Basements were places where shadows didn't obey the basics laws of physics, where they seemed to stretch and skew in ways that looked like claws and fangs and psycho murderers.

Whatever Gerard has said, Mikey didn't plan on sticking around down there for long. He just wanted to grab Dad's gun, load it, and go. He squinted in the darkness, spying the lockbox, then crouched down to slide the key out from under the mat.

A clatter of falling boxes made Mikey's heart stop dead, his head snapping in the direction of the commotion. He was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was unarmed, half blind from the dim light, and very appetizing to any creature that feasted on muscle tissue and entrails. He held his breath, staring at the fallen boxes, waiting for a trapped and very hungry zombie to come stumbling out of the shadows.

What came wandering out was much smaller, and a whole lot less frightening than the walking dead. Gerard and Lindsey's dog, looking about as terrified as Mikey was, probably hungry and lonely and confused. Mikey let out the breath he'd been holding and moved over to kneel down and give the dog a little scratch behind her ears. "You scared the shit out of me, girl. I wish I had some food for you."

Mikey forced himself to leave the dog be, getting back to the business of retrieving a much needed weapon. His fingers were still shaking as he got the key in the lock, but he managed to get the box open on the first try. Dad's old gun sparked a twinge of loneliness in Mikey's chest, tight and almost suffocating. Had the apocalypse reached home yet? The last news report they'd managed to get on the television in the studio said the plague was spreading east out of California, that it had made its way to Vegas. It might have spread to the east coast by now, but they had no idea the rate it was traveling at. Maybe it had slowed down in the Midwest. People were more spread out there, weren't they?

He missed home. Missed his mom and dad and the friends there. Adam and the rest of Taking Back Sunday were all in New York, last he'd heard. Maybe they were okay, maybe they were fighting this thing, too. If only the fucking phones were still working.

Mikey swallowed his worry and checked the gun over to make sure it was still usable, remembering when his dad had showed him how to work it. They used to go shoot at cans in the quarry for fun when he was a kid. Mikey'd been scared of the sound back then, and his dad always let him wear the extra thick ear muffs. The gun seemed to be fine, and Mikey made quick work of loading it, shoving the rest of the bullet in his hoodie pockets.

Then came the screams.

Mikey thought he knew what fear was, what panic was. He'd certainly had his fair share of panic attacks over the years, the worst while they were living at the Paramour. Sometimes it had gotten so bad he couldn't breathe, or see; so bad he thought he was dying or already dead. The fear that gripped him then, standing alone in that basement was so much worse. He felt like his heart was actually going to fly out of his chest. Everything felt slow. So slow. Too slow. There was no way he could move fast enough to get out.

The screams were Gerard's, and Mikey knew he couldn't get to him fast enough.

Mikey tripped up the stairs, taking them almost three at a time and flinging the door to the kitchen open. There was nothing in the kitchen, and he cursed, running for the living room, and the stairs that lead up to the bedroom.

He didn't have to go that far. Gerard was on the floor near the couch in the living toom, clawing at the carpet and thrashing with his legs. Lindsey was on the floor just behind him, gripping his leg for dear life. He couldn't see what had attacked them, what had drawn the screams out of his family. Where was the fucking zombie? Was it behind the couch? Under the couch? Back upstairs?

His brother screamed again and kicked with the leg Lindsey wasn't gripping to, and it was then that Mikey saw the blood. The denim of Gerard's pant legs was torn, exposing a gruesome wound, skin bitten and torn, practically flayed right off the bone. Lindsey's nails were worrying at the seeping gashes, clawing them deeper, trying to get a solid grip. She wasn't making a sound, not even when Gerard's foot connected hard with her face. She looked up, up past Gerard, right at Mikey, and her eyes were wide and black.

"No. Fuck. No. _No_." Mikey repeated the word over and over again, his voice growing more disbelieving and frantic until he was out of breath, and then he just mouthed it, frozen where he stood.

Lindsey managed to claw her way closer, and Mikey gaped as she sunk her teeth into the meat of Gerard's calf like it was nothing more substantial than a dinner roll. Gerard twisted and kicked again, finally managing to wrench his leg away and kick her back out of reach. It was then that his frantic, searching eyes spotted Mikey, and he shouted louder than Mikey'd ever heard him before.

"Mikey, go!" Lindsey got her hand on his foot, but he kicked it away, crawling a few more precious inches away from her across the carpet. "Get the fuck out of here!"

"I'm not fucking leaving you!" Mikey voice was just as loud as Gerard's, full of a determination and confidence that he didn't think he was capable of. A strange thing happened then, an instinct took over that confused Mikey as much as it would confuse anyone else. He brought their father's gun up to eye level, his hand as steady as it was when his fingers would move over the strings of his bass. He took aim like he used to when he was a boy, keeping both eyes open and widening his stance.

Lindsey was back on top of Gerard's legs, reaching for the hem of his shirt, and Mikey cursed under his breath. He might hit Gerard. He couldn't hit Gerard. The gun went off before he was aware he'd even cocked the gun, let alone pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Lindsey in the shoulder and sent her back across the living room.

Gerard was up off the floor a second later, staggering to the door. Mikey couldn't make his legs move, couldn't work his brain to command them to flee. His arm lifted again, bringing the gun back up to eye level. If you had told Mikey a week prior that him and Gerard would be fighting for their lives, that he would be turning a gun on his sister-in-law turned zombie, he would have laughed in your face. But that was where they were, and Mikey didn't even have to fight to keep his arm steady as he took a killing aim at Lindsey.

His second shot missed, Lindsey moving fast toward Gerard, the bullet hit a family portrait across the room, shatter glass and busting through the wall. He got one more shot off as she rushed Gerard, but that one missed too, the couch exploding in a burst of leather and stuffing. "Shit!"

Lindsey leapt onto Gerard, knocking him into a bucket by the door, sending umbrellas and canes scattering over the floor. Gerard fell back, his head hitting the door with a sickening crack, and Mikey watched in horror as Lindsey sunk her teeth into his face. He stared just long enough to watch her yank her head back. Watch her tear Gerard's eye from the socket. Everything was red gore, sick and wet. Mikey raised the gun again, but his hand wasn't steady this time. There was no way he could get a clear shot without hitting Gerard. Infected or no, there was no fucking way he was shooting his brother.

Mikey opened his mouth to shout at Gerard, but the words died in his throat. There was a horrible sound, the sound of a breastbone breaking, a heart bursting, a spinal cord splitting. A long thin blade slid out through Lindsey's back, slick with blood. She finally made a sound, and it was the worst possible sound. Soft and meek, a little pained moan, he would have missed it entirely if hadn't been stunned silent.

"Oh god," Gerard pulled the sword free, breaking the spell that had held Mikey in place for so long. He ran to his brother, dropping the gun and shoving Lindsey's corpse off Gerard.

"Gerard, shit. Gerard..." Mikey was panicking again, feeling that tightness in his throat, the almost hiccup like spasms in his chest. Gerard's face was worse than anything he'd ever seen in any horror film, anything they'd ever read about. Mikey had to fight back nausea as much as he was fighting back panic. "Don't move. I'm going to... fuck. Get something. I don't know. Just don't try to move."

Mikey stood, dashing around the living room in search of anything he could use to cover Gerard's wounds. A towel, a blanket, even a fucking pillow case would do. Anything to stop or slow the bleeding. He had to keep Gerard alive long enough to get him back to the studio and into Ray and James's care. They had to make this right again.

A sharp click made the hair on the back of Mikey's neck bristle. He knew that sound, not just from his childhood but from a thousand movies and television shows. His head snapped back in Gerard's direction. Gerard had the gun in his mouth, his head back against the door. His finger was on the trigger.

"No!" Mikey was certain he'd never moved faster in his life as he vaulted over the couch, reaching Gerard just in time. He smacked the gun out of Gerard's grip, grabbing both his hands and gripping them tight between his own. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare, you selfish prick."

Gerard coughed and turned his head to spit out the blood that had dripped down into his mouth. He took in several deep, raspy breaths, his lips working soundlessly before he finally choked something out. "Fuck you."

"I need you! Gerard," Mikey shook Gerard's hands, trying to make him listen. Gerard's head lolled, and Mikey gasped, letting go of Gerard's hands and frantically searching his throat for a pulse. "Gerard? Fuck, Gerard!" There were several long, agonizing moments before he finally found Gerard's heartbeat, and he almost burst into tears when he did. He was just unconscious. He wasn't dead, and he wouldn't be anytime soon, not if Mikey had any say in the matter.

Mikey slid one hand into Gerard's hair and pulled his head in against his chest, holding him close for a brief moment before kissing his unbloodied cheek. "Please, just hang in there."

Mikey grabbed the gun, making sure it had enough bullets still to get them safely back to the studio should they encounter any zombies on the way. He grabbed the sword Gerard used on Lindsey, sliding it back into the cane and twisting it to lock it. He took a few deep breaths then lifted Gerard up with his free arm, getting one of Gerard's over his shoulders. "Don't give up on me yet."

 

Frank opens the door to the sound booth, breaking the tension in the air. He's got the cane Mikey was clutching early in his hand, his grip so tight his whole hand has gone white. He glances at each of them before he looks at the brothers, Mikey shaking so hard his teeth are chattering, Gerard still unconscious. There's some color coming back to Gerard's complexion, not much, but it's something. A good sign maybe. Something to be hopeful about. He clears his throat, trying to keep his voice even, keep emotion out of it. "Let's give them some time alone, yeah? I think they deserve it."

James exhales a sharp stream of smoke, looking at Frank like he's lost his mind. "We don't even know if it's fucking worked yet. Leaving Mikey alone with him isn't safe."

"James," Ray stands and reaches to grip James's shoulder, meeting his eyes. The look he gives him says all it needs to, one way or another Mikey isn't going to survive without Gerard. Gerard turns into a zombie and eats him. Or Gerard turns into a zombie, Mikey has to kill him and then kills himself. They all know that's how it's going to go down if the cure doesn't work, and there's no sense in pretending otherwise.

James and Ray are the first to leave the room, followed shortly by Bob, who gives Mikey's shoulder a small grip before he goes. Frank hovers in the room a moment longer, his jaw set tight. Finally he gives the head of the cane a sharp twist, remembering all the times he'd seem Gerard do this, mostly showing off. He slides the sword out of the cane, setting it down on the floor at his feet. Mikey glances at it, then up at Frank, sniffling miserably before nodding.

"I hope it doesn't come to that." Frank returns the nod, heading after the others and locking the sound booth behind him.

A few silent moments pass before Mikey does anything more than cry quietly. When he's finally composed himself enough to move, he gently moves Gerard head out of his lap and onto a pillow, being extra careful around the bandage. He rubs at his eyes, feeling suddenly very lost and alone. After a few moments of just sitting there shaking, he slides down to lie next to Gerard, curling in close to his side, lying like they used to when they were kids trading secrets in the dark. Only back then they were both lying on their sides, facing each other. Gerard wasn't on his back, wasn't covered in gauze, wasn't fighting for his own death against James's cure.

Mikey reaches out to rest his trembling fingers over Gerard's chest, trying to feel his heart through his shirt. When he can't quiet manage it he just slides his arm around Gerard, holding him in a half hug and resting his forehead against his bare cheek. "Please, Gerard, please don't leave me."

Mikey doesn't know how much time passes before he's almost asleep. Maybe half an hour, maybe days. Maybe the world has ended with them like that. Maybe they were the last living humans left on earth. It's that thought that's with him as his eyes close, finally unable and unwilling to keep them open anymore. He curls a little closer to Gerard, his nose brushing against Gerard's cheek. "I love you."

Gerard's chest moves, rising a bit higher than it had been with his shallow, sparse breaths. It's the inhale before a sigh. A long slow breath of life. Mikey's not awake to notice it, or catch the way Gerard's good eye flutters open, revealing clear gold. It takes all of Gerard's strength to move his arm, rest his hand over Mikey's elbow.

"Love you too." His voice is rough, barely a whisper, and when he's done he falls asleep from the effort.

 

It's two days later when Gerard finally emerges from the sound booth, leaning heavily on the head of his cane. There's a set to his jaw that's never been there before, a hollowness in his eye that keeps the rest of them silent, waiting for him to speak. Mikey is at his elbow, watching him in case he needs an arm to lean on. Frank is lying out on the couch, one leg propped up on the armrest, the other foot resting flat on the floor.

James is smoking his way through a cigarette, sitting with his back to the table with his pirated and mishmashed lab. Bob and Ray are facing each other on the floor, Ray in the middle of explaining to Bob how to wrap a sprained ankle, gesturing with a roll of medical tape in one hand. They all look up when Gerard clears his throat, all suddenly silent as they wait for him to say something. Speak for the first time since before the incident.

"We can't stay here forever." None of them can place what's different about Gerard's voice. It's not quite monotone and cold, but it's not the gentle softness it used to be either. It's hardened. It demands attention. "We need a better plan."

"You know," Frank says, sitting up and swinging both legs off the couch. He rubs at his eyes, then at his thighs, looking at the floor as he continues. "I'm worried about 'Mia. And my Ma and Dad."

Ray bites his lip when Frank mentions his wife, glancing nervously at Gerard. No one really knows what went down between Gerard and Lindsey, no one but Mikey anyway, and he hadn't told them the specifics, just confirmed that it had been her, and that he never wanted to speak of it again, especially around Gerard.

Gerard nods, reaching for Mikey's arm so that his brother can help him to a chair. Once he sits he manages to gather the strength to continue, his hands still resting on the carved head of his cane. "We need to find out who's survived, if this has spread as far as home or if it's become an isolated outbreak."

"If we're heading east I want to stop middle of the road," James pauses to take the cigarette from his mouth, flicking it toward the coffee can Ray set by his table so he would stop ashing onto the floor. He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes going unfocused for a moment. His voice is softer than it has been in days, the anger he's been showing to everyone and everything dissolving. "I want to pick up Dani. If she's still alive."

Ray sighs, tossing the roll of medical tape down hard against the floor. He shakes his head and yanks at his hair. "No one's going anywhere, okay?" He glares at Gerard like he lost his mind along with his eye. "You are in no condition to go trekking across the fucking country; you can barely even stand for more than a few minutes at a time."

Gerard is quiet for a long moment, looking at each of them in turn. Frank is just opening his mouth to make a smart-ass comment when Gerard taps his cane against the floor, giving the head of the cane a sharp twist and sliding the sword free. He gives the sword a flick, sweeping the roll of tape off the floor and catching it deftly with his free hand. He offers the tape back to Ray, then rests the flat of his blade over his lap. "I think I can manage."


End file.
